The Burning Game
by Lamiel
Summary: AU.  Two years after the Great Game, Moriarty is back and Sherlock couldn't be happier.  John could.  COMPLETE.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** Well, I'm back. Truth to tell, I'm a bit embarrassed about posting this here – for all the readers who are familiar with my "Lord of the Rings" work, this is quite a bit different. It's a new fandom, for one thing: the BBC's _Sherlock_, featuring a modern day recasting of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson set in 2010. I've been a fan of Sherlock Holmes since I was twelve years old, and I love this show. If you haven't seen it yet, do yourself a favor and check it out. It's awesome.

**Disclaimer:** The characters in this story are taken from the BBC's modern day recasting of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes. The plot is loosely derived from an episode of _Smallville_, of all things. So I own even less than usual here.

Beta and Brit-pick done by the amazing Melaszka, who tirelessly corrected all of my American failings to make this story into something that hopefully even native Londoners can enjoy.

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**The Burning Game**

by Lamiel

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"If you are clever enough to bring destruction upon me, rest assured that I shall do as much to you."

– James Moriarty, _The Final Problem_

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Sherlock was seriously beginning to re-examine his preference for taxis over other modes of transport. Although the expense had never been a concern for him as it was for John Watson, and although they were versatile, quick and convenient, there remained some significant downsides to the London taxi that were nonetheless becoming more and more difficult to ignore.

At this moment, in particular, the downside preying most heavily on his mind was that stepping into a cab necessarily put one, however temporarily, into the power of a stranger. This had not concerned him in the past, even in the aftermath of the murderous cabbie and the serial suicides when John had decreed that Sherlock could not as much as take a taxi to New Scotland Yard unaccompanied. That bout of nannying had lasted a grand total of three days. Sherlock had put an end to it when the annoyance of having his footsteps dogged finally outweighed the amusement of seeing Dr. John Watson, decorated captain of the Royal Infantry, play mother hen. He had ended it by simply disappearing for an afternoon – not long enough to really worry John, but sufficient to prove the point that, having spent his adulthood dodging Mycroft Holmes and the combined power of the British government, one psychosomatically lame army doctor was not going to slow Sherlock down.

The demonstration had been a success. John had grumbled, but backed off. Now, though, as Sherlock tugged vainly at the rear door handle, he couldn't help but wonder if John had had a point.

It was not cabs themselves that were dangerous, Sherlock decided, testing the locking mechanism again. It was electronically sealed, that much was obvious. Even if he ripped the lock from the door it would not open. No, it was not cabs that were dangerous. It was _this particular cab_, which was, of course, not a taxi at all, for all that someone had gone to tremendous lengths to make it look like one.

Sherlock had realised this approximately two seconds after he'd sat down, the instant he'd had his first real look at the car's interior. It was too clean – someone had tried to conceal that fact by scattering the crumbs from a bag of crisps on the floor, but the lack of corresponding grease prints on the door handle gave the ruse away. It was too new – the model was three years old, but the lack of wear on the seats and floor mats said that it had never been used. And then, of course, there were the windows. They were tinted exactly the same shade as all cabs were, but that did not quite conceal the delicate web of lines running through the glass, lines that blared the message for anyone with the wit to see it: _bullet proof glass._

By then, however, it had been too late. They'd pulled away from the kerb, and as the cabbie merged into traffic Sherlock constructed a decision tree.

_Fact: Abducted._

_Fact: Car built as prison, disguised as cab._

_Conclusion: abductor is wealthy, and thorough._

_Fact: Not-cab sent to Baker Street/same-time/Harlow case accepted._

_Conclusion: Harlow case a lure._

He knew it. He _knew _it. It was just too good to be true. Weeks of stagnation broken only by what paltry few cases Scotland Yard had managed to dredge up, barely worth the ten minutes it took to crack them, and then this had come in on the website. The Harlow case had promised an actual challenge, a puzzle worth _thinking _about, and of course it was a trap. Sherlock spared a fraction of a second to mourn this loss and then returned to focus.

_Summation: well-planned abduction; self known/monitored by abductor; money/resources evident._

_Hypothesis 1: Mycroft._

_ Data 1a: Mycroft interactions ≤ 1/week per mutual agreement (ref: The Piano Incident, 1997/06/18)._

_ Data 1b: Mycroft visited 4 days ago (cross-ref: The Vine Files (dull))._

_Conclusion 1: Hypothesis false, discard._

_Hypothesis 2: Moriarty._

_ Data 2a: Moriarty in Bolivia (ref: Mycroft)_

_ Data 2b: Moriarty file incomplete/inaccurate (ref: Mycroft averted gaze, touched tiepin when questioned by John, 2010/06/08. Well done, John.)_

_ Data 2c: Moriarty statement/promise/vow re: self, burning heart out of._

_Conclusion 2: Hypothesis true._

_Conclusion 2a: Mycroft WAS WRONG! Cross-file, save. To be retrieved for future reference: self/Mycroft interactions; Christmas dinners – expiry date: 2 years. To be retrieved if/when Mycroft mentions Piano Incident – expiry date: never._

Watching his 'cab driver' in the mirror (_tan on neck and hands, heavily muscled, 9mm revolver in left coat pocket, scar below right eye inexpertly concealed by makeup: conclusion 1 – hitman, obvious, dull. Conclusion 2 – Moriarty unconcerned that self realises abduction. Conclusion 3 – escape not possible.) _ Sherlock tried opening the lock of his door. Then, in the spirit of making the experiment complete, he tried the window. Neither budged.

They were traveling west, he realised, sparing a glance out the window. For a moment he wondered if Moriarty intended to take him outside the city entirely, but the driver pulled off Western Avenue just before Hanger Lane. The Park Royal Industrial Estate, then.

Sherlock considered his options.

_Option 1: Choke driver until unconscious._

_Result: car crash._

_Self injury/death probability: medium. Driver body/seat shields self from crash. Angle of attack minimises target for gun._

_Bystander injury/death probability: high. Car trajectory variable/uncontrolled during struggle._ Sherlock was rather proud of himself for remembering to factor this into his calculations. John would have been pleased.

_Escape probability: low. Car bullet proof: force of impact at 70 km/hr reinforced steel breaking point._

_Rescue probability: low. Car tailed by Moriarty's agents._

Sherlock could see them, two cars back: a 2004 Toyota, blue with a scratch on the driver-side door, had been following them for the past three minutes. They'd reach him long before any ambulance or police car did.

_Option 2: text John/Lestrade/Mycroft._

This was, undoubtedly, the course of action that John would prefer. They were passing through the Industrial Estate now. The traffic thinned out until it was just the two cars travelling through the pothole-ridden streets, the Toyota twenty feet behind the ersatz taxi and not even trying to pretend it wasn't following them.

_Definitely Moriarty,_ Sherlock concluded. Mycroft would never tolerate that kind of sloppiness from his agents, even when he knew that Sherlock knew they were there.

Texting John would unquestionably be the safe thing to do. John would claim it was also the _sensible _thing to do. John had a whole lexicon of words that sounded the same as the words Sherlock used, but on examination had an entirely different meaning. Words like _sensible, safe, good _and _normal _were very different in John-speak than they were in Sherlock's world.

Texting John or the police and telling them where he was (driving north on Levine Road, crossing the junction with Mill Road, broken traffic light, railway crossing a quarter mile ahead) would be the _sensible _thing to do, in John's world. It would lead to rescue, and Sherlock would then be _safe_. It was what any _normal _person would do, and Sherlock would be an _idiot _(another John word) to do otherwise.

And he would miss the chance to confront Moriarty, and he would never know what brilliant madness he'd come up with this time.

Sherlock's phone remained in his jacket pocket, untouched. He gave up trying the door latch and settled back against the seat, content to wait and see where the car took him.

It was better this way, he told himself a few minutes later as they approached the tracks. The last time he'd met Moriarty, John had nearly died. This way he was well out of it, and _safe._ The memory of those explosives strapped to his friend's chest still had the power to make Sherlock's throat tight, and he wondered absently if John would consider this a _good_ thing, a _normal _reaction to have. He decided that he would. He also decided to award himself full points for putting John's safety above his own (_impulse for self-sacrifice/regard for others + context: friendship = normal_), and never mind that it had come a distant second to his driving curiosity about Moriarty.

The car bumped over the railway tracks and stopped. Sherlock glanced up as the engine switched off. In the next instant he lunged forward and launched himself at the driver's side door, but he had to scramble over the seats and the door slammed shut again just as he reached it.

He didn't need the sound of the lock activating to know that he was well and truly trapped. He also didn't need to look outside to know what happened next. The blue Toyota pulled up behind him and his driver climbed in. Its engine revved as it executed a fast three-point turn, and then it roared away with a spatter of gravel, leaving Sherlock imprisoned alone in a car that was parked directly across the railway track of the London-Oxford line.

It was Thursday, which meant that the next train was due to pass through here (Sherlock checked his watch) in 12 minutes.

His phone beeped.

Sherlock couldn't quite suppress the smile that came to his lips. He breathed in, acutely aware of the rush of air in his lungs, the pounding of his heart as he drew the phone from his pocket and slid a finger across the screen to unlock it. The adrenalin was coursing through him, firing his senses, sharpening his mind. Breathing was boring, existence was boring, but this, _this _was being alive. It was better than nicotine patches, better than cocaine. This was what he lived for.

His voice, when he answered, was perfectly steady.

"Hello, Jim."

"Sherlock, my _dear,_" and it was James Moriarty, speaking with his own voice for a change. There was no hostage between them this time, no broken gasps or sobs or hysteria to be filtered out of Sherlock's calculations. Of course. They had finished with that sixteen months ago, at the pool. Jim had nothing left to hide from him.

"I suppose you're wondering why I brought you here," Jim continued.

"Not really," Sherlock said. "I dispatched Sebastian Moran six weeks ago. That's your second in command gone, two-thirds of your London network dismantled, your operations in China, Russia, and Dubai suspended, and over 100 of your operatives jailed, killed or actively informing against you. It was only a matter of time before you struck back."

"Is that what you think this is?" Jim was smiling. Sherlock could hear it in his voice. "Me striking back?"

"The evidence is suggestive." Sherlock lowered the phone as he rolled onto his back and brought his feet up. He took aim and kicked as hard as he could. His feet hit the driver's window with such force that the ricochet jarred painfully up his spine, but the reinforced glass barely shivered in response.

When he picked up the phone again Jim sounded annoyed. "Oh, don't be tedious. I told you, I'm not going to _kill _you. At least, not without giving you a sporting chance."

"Ah." Sherlock sat up and smoothed the wrinkles from his suit jacket. "So that's what this is. Another game."

"Of course!" Jim giggled, sounding far from sane. "That's all it's ever been between us, Sherlock. A game."

Sherlock grinned. He couldn't help it – the delight was bubbling up inside him, and John would be horrified, would say that happy excitement was _not _a normal reaction to being locked in a death-trap at the whim of a homicidal madman, that it was definitely _not good_ – but Sherlock's mind was racing and his nerves were humming, and he hadn't been bored for almost thirty minutes now and this was _wonderful._

"All right," he said. "Your move."

There was a beep, and the digital display of the faux cab's meter changed. It switched to a black screen, blank but for a series of ten dashes and a rudimentary gallows drawn in white. Sherlock blinked.

"Hangman? That's the game? _Hangman?_"

"You needn't sound so disappointed," Jim's voice was petulant. "This is just the beginning. It'll get better, I promise."

Sherlock sighed. The last time he had played hangman had been with Mycroft, during an interminable flight from London to Melbourne for one of Mother's mandatory family holidays. Mycroft had hanged him with _loquacious_, and Sherlock had sulked for a week. Then he had memorised the Oxford English Dictionary, at which point Mycroft had declared hangman to be a child's game and beneath his dignity to play. Sherlock had been eight.

"If you say so. E."

The display changed. _ _ _ E _ _ _ _ _ _

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "A."

Jim giggled. "Ah, ah, sorry, my dear." A crudely drawn head appeared on the gallows, complete with two eyes, a downward turned mouth and curly hair.

"The face and hair don't come until last!" Sherlock protested.

"My game, my rules," Jim sing-songed. "Besides, I like your hair."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I."

The screen changed again, this time with a more satisfactory result. _ I _ E _ _ _ _ _ _

Sherlock glanced up the track, the short distance before it curved around a bend and out of sight. Six minutes left.

"C."

"Oops, sorry!" The hanged man's head acquired a stick line body.

"S." A leg attached itself to the body. Jim made a noise of regret.

"D." Another leg. The figure was half-hanged now, with five minutes to go. Sherlock hissed between his teeth.

"T." This time two letters appeared. T I _ E T _ _ _ _ _

A train whistle sounded in the distance. "Uh oh," Jim said.

"What?" Sherlock snapped.

"Well, it seems that the 4:15 from Oxford is running a bit early today," Jim said. "I'd have taken that into consideration, but my contacts have been rather curtailed of late. You know how it is."

The gates of the level crossing were lowering, blocking off the empty road. "Sorry," Jim said.

Sherlock sat back in his seat. The train was less than a hundred yards away by the sound and coming fast. He couldn't do a thing about that, so he ignored it. And he concentrated.

Thus far he had been using the letters that were statistically most likely to occur in the English language, given the presence of the E that he'd first established. It was a method that worked, but it was slow. But this was James Moriarty, and he was Sherlock Holmes. It wasn't just a game, it was a message.

He smiled.

"U." Another letter appeared. T I _ E T _ _ U _ _

"Burn," Sherlock murmured to himself. Then, aloud, "It isn't a word, it's a _phrase_. 'Time to burn.'"

"Oh, well _done,_" Jim said, and the car door clicked open as the letters flashed on the screen. T I M E T O B U R N

Sherlock barely saw them. The glow of triumph had vanished as the import of the message hit him, and he was throwing himself out of the door and rolling under the gate even as the train roared around the bend.

Then he was on his feet and running, racing up the empty road while the train slammed full force into the car behind him. There was a deafening crash and a long scream of metal. A wall of heat hit his back and sparks showered around him, stinging his neck, but Sherlock didn't look round.

The thought was hammering in his mind, in his gut: _Burn. I will burn you. I will burn the heart out of you._

_Time to burn._

_John._

Sherlock ran.


	2. Chapter 2

"John!" Sherlock hit the door of 221B at a run, leaving the unpaid taxi honking behind him. He scarcely glanced at the hall (_Coats hung on pegs, unused; Mrs. Hudson's door closed but not latched; 5 envelopes on table (4 bills, 1 other), smell of curry and lavender perfume/not Mrs. Hudson's_) and vaulted up the stairs three at a time.

"John!" he burst into their flat fully expecting it to be empty, John and his date gone and his takeaway cold on the table with a mocking note from Moriarty beside it.

Instead he found John, curled on the couch with his arm around a girl (_age 28-32, 5'5", brunette, usually wears glasses but switched to contacts for their date)_ and a look of extreme annoyance on his face.

In addition to the smells of curry and perfume, there was a faint but telling musk of human arousal in the air.

"Sherlock!" John got to his feet, his voice tight; the way it got when he was trying not to shout. "What are you doing here? You said you had a case."

"There's a firebomb," Sherlock said, stating the only logical conclusion given the evidence. "You have to get out of here. Now. Go."

John stared at him. "A – _what?_ Where? How? I've been here all –"

"_Go!_" Sherlock grabbed his arm and propelled him to the door. "You, too," he added to the girl, who was still on the sofa. Not one of John's brighter conquests, this one. "Out!"

John shook off Sherlock's hand and went to collect her. "All right. All _right_, we're going. Come on, Julie. Don't ask, just go."

When she had started going down the stairs John stopped and turned back. "Come on, Sherlock! You're not staying."

"Get Mrs. Hudson out," Sherlock said, already climbing the stairs to the upper level. "I'll be right behind."

He thumbed his mobile as he entered John's room (_desk, chair, afghan rug, bed still made according to military regulations_), sending a brief text to Lestrade.

_221B, bomb. Send team. SH_

John's gun was in a locked safe under his desk. Sherlock spun the dial, thankful that John had apparently stuck to his side of the bargain they had come to: John would stop changing the combination of his safe if Sherlock would stop breaking into it just to prove that he could. Safe-cracking was one of the less dull hobbies Sherlock had cultivated along with lock-picking, chemistry and the violin, but right now he didn't need it to pass the time. Moriarty was doing that for him just fine.

He checked that the gun was loaded and the safety catch was engaged before slipping it into the waistband of his trousers. Then he ran down the stairs and out into the street. The worried lines around John's eyes smoothed out at the sight of him, and his expression slipped into one of relief.

"Sherlock, thank God."

"Further back," Sherlock said, motioning to the knot of people that included John, Julie, Mrs. Hudson and the irate cab driver. "Move out of the blast radius."

A clamour of questions answered this statement, but no one moved. Mrs. Hudson was plucking at Sherlock's sleeve in a worried fashion. The cab driver was scowling at him, and Julie looked lost. Sherlock turned to John in exasperation. "John –"

"Okay, everyone." John said with practised authority. "That postbox on the corner, come on. We can talk about it there."

As they hurried up the street Sherlock pulled out the gun and handed it to John. John took it and checked the safety catch without breaking stride. "Moriarty?"

"Yes."

"I thought Mycroft said he was in Bolivia."

"Mycroft was wrong." Sherlock couldn't help a small grin of satisfaction as he said this.

John saw it and rolled his eyes. "You called the police?"

"I texted Lestrade." Sherlock did not add that he'd sent that text only after he'd arrived home and found John un-abducted. A bomb? Hadn't they done that before? He'd expected better of Moriarty, and he'd been so _sure_ that he had been targeting John. A bombing was so . . . unimaginative.

"I texted you, too," Sherlock gave John a reproachful look. "You didn't answer your phone."

"I'd turned it off." John spoke with the curious mixture of defensiveness and defiance that he usually adopted when doing something contrary to Sherlock's wishes. "I offered to help with the Harlow case and you said no. I _am _allowed a night off now and then."

"I _called _you." Sherlock's tone wrung every drop of suffering from this sacrifice.

"I was _busy._"

"With Julie," Sherlock sniffed. They stopped a few yards from the group gathered by the postbox. There was a sound of sirens in the distance.

"Yes! All right? I was having a night in with Julie. It was nice."

"I don't see why," Sherlock said. "She wasn't going to sleep with you, anyway."

John's jaw dropped.

"_What _did you say?" The rest of the group was nearby, and Sherlock hadn't bothered to keep his voice down. Now Julie herself marched over to them, high heels clacking. "Who the hell are you?"

"Sherlock Holmes," Sherlock informed her. "I was saying that, when I entered the flat, your reaction was one of surprise but not anger. Your calves are swollen with visible varicose veins. You've spent most of your career on your feet, most likely as a waitress given your economic background. But your hands show that you've had a desk job for the past six months, and no waitress can afford to spend what you did on your hair and shoes. Most probable conclusion: you worked your way up to a management position. One might presume that you are therefore used to asserting yourself, but you remained silent while John protested my entrance. Inference: you were surprised by the method of interruption, but did not object to the interruption itself. Your wine glass was barely touched, while John's was empty. You were keeping a clear head. John had removed his jacket and loosened his tie, but you still had your heels on. Furthermore, you're wearing a mid-thigh bodysuit under your clothes in an attempt to conceal the fact that you are two stone heavier than your ideal weight. Unlikely you wanted John to see that on your first date. Conclusion: You did not intend to have intercourse with him this evening."

Julie expressed the range of emotions Sherlock usually observed in his interactions with people: irritation giving way to astonishment, which just as quickly changed to fury. She glared at him, her teeth grinding together before she spoke.

"Piss off." Turning to John, she said flatly, "Thank you for a lovely evening. I'll see myself home." She strode away.

Sherlock sighed. "Typical." Really he could not understand how such an extraordinary man as John Watson, who had the good sense to appreciate Sherlock's abilities, could spend so much of his time in the company of these mundane, boringly predictable _women_.

John glowered at him. "Cheers, Sherlock."

"It was true," Sherlock said. The sirens were closer now.

"It doesn't matter if it was true!" John snapped. "Can't you just . . . just _act_ human? Be polite? I've seen you do it!"

"Yes," Sherlock said, surprised. "But why should I? She didn't know anything that would be of any use in the case."

"Oh, for the love of . . ." John shook his head, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Never mind. Just . . . never mind. What about Moriarty?"

"He wants revenge for the dismantling of his criminal network," Sherlock said, relieved at the change of topic back to something relevant.

"So he puts a bomb in Baker Street? Haven't we been here before?"

Sherlock nodded, feeling a warm glow of satisfaction. Trust John to pick up on the important things.

"So why do it again? God knows, _you_ never do the same thing twice. Wouldn't he get bored?"

"I am not James Moriarty," Sherlock pointed out.

"Right."

"He's criminally insane."

"Says the self-described sociopath."

"I wouldn't bomb our flat."

"Not more than once," John agreed. "So what's his game? Does he just like bombs?"

"No," Sherlock said, thinking of the near miss with the train. "There's something else, this time."

The sirens' wail rose to an ear-splitting pitch and then cut off as a squadron of police cars, followed by an ambulance and fire engine, pulled into Baker Street. People were coming out of the neighbouring buildings to watch as they parked, filling the street.

"Look at that!" Sherlock's cab driver complained, crossing his arms over his considerable belly. "I'm completely blocked in. You're paying for my time here, mate."

Sherlock glanced at him, (_mid-forties, Cockney accent, divorced with one child, smokes hand-rolled cigarettes_) and promptly deleted him from thought. There were more important matters at hand than the cabbie's fare.

"_Attention,_" a loudspeaker blared from one of the cars. "_Attention. This is an evacuation. Please leave the area immediately. This is not a drill._"

Uniformed officers were going door to door, chivvying the onlookers into movement. A K9 unit approached 221B, sending next-door's terrier cross into a frenzy of excited barking. Lestrade hurried through the crowd toward them, the overcoat that he wore even in summer flapping around his knees.

"I got your message."

"Obviously," Sherlock said.

John shot him a look. "Behave."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "It's Moriarty."

Lestrade frowned. "I thought he was in Bolivia."

"He –" Sherlock paused. Moriarty _could_ still be in Bolivia, directing his agents remotely. Sherlock had not actually seen him, and he hadn't had the equipment to trace the phone call. But no. He knew, even without evidence he _knew _that Jim was here, in London. This was personal.

"He's back."

Lestrade blew out his breath in a heavy sigh. "He sent a bomb to your flat? What is it, a package?"

"No," Sherlock said. "He must have planted it there on Monday. It was the only time that John and I were both out of the flat."

"Wait," Lestrade said. "You haven't seen anything? Nothing suspicious?"

"Well, there were five pounds of fertiliser and a litre of nitrous oxide on the kitchen table this morning," John volunteered.

"They're for an experiment," Sherlock said. "They aren't suspicious."

"The explosives squad might disagree," Lestrade said dryly. "So, no mysterious packages, nothing you've noticed out of the ordinary . . . ordinary for you, that is. So how do you know there's a bomb?"

"It's _James Moriarty_," Sherlock said, pronouncing the words slowly so as to give them maximum opportunity to penetrate Lestrade's skull.

Lestrade raised an eyebrow. "He told you there was a bomb?"

Sherlock hesitated. _I will burn the heart out of you._ But he hadn't taken John, and if his target was Baker Street, then why hadn't the bomb exploded as Sherlock arrived home? That would be very like Jim, to destroy Sherlock's home before his eyes. What was the point of letting him get John and Mrs. Hudson out? What was he playing at?

"Told me . . . no," Sherlock admitted. "Not in so many words."

Anderson approached them, his lips pursed in an expression of disgust.

"Anything yet?" Lestrade asked him.

"If by 'anything,' you mean an actual bomb, then the answer is no," Anderson said. "So far we've got a bag of fertiliser, nitrous oxide, a partially dissected human hand, and three of the chemical components for a major nerve toxin, disassembled. There are so many chemicals in that flat, the dogs keep getting distracted."

"Keep looking," Lestrade said.

"That hand was in a baking tin, in the fridge," Anderson said. "What kind of person keeps something like that in their fridge?"

"Better than the coffee table, where it was yesterday," John said.

"It was next to the milk," Anderson said.

"It doesn't matter," Lestrade said. "Just focus on whatever can go 'boom,' okay?"

Anderson retreated, grumbling under his breath. John drew Sherlock aside. "What's going on here? You talked to Moriarty? When?"

"This afternoon," Sherlock said. He was thinking about the team with their dogs currently in his flat, and the small box with its tiny vial and syringe hidden in his bedroom.

"You saw him?"

"He rang my mobile." Bomb-sniffing dogs were specifically trained for the particular scents of plastic and explosives. It was highly unlikely that the squad had any cross-trained to find liquid cocaine. Unlikely, but not impossible.

"What happened?"

Anderson had said that the dogs were distracted by the smell of chemicals . . . but he'd designed that hiding place so that even Mycroft wouldn't find it. Dogs or no dogs, Anderson and his goons didn't stand a chance.

"Sherlock! Are you even listening to me?"

"Mmm?"

"What happened this afternoon?" John asked. "I don't think Moriarty just gave a friendly ring to warn you."

All the same, Sherlock decided, he wanted those people out of his flat. Now. "This isn't right. It should have gone off by now."

"Well, let's be glad it hasn't," John tilted his head, looking him over. "There's a scrape on your hand, and your clothes are dirty."

Sherlock had a flash of memory, of the scream of metal and fire and the bruising his arms and shoulders as he rolled under the crossing gate. It wasn't just dirt from the road surface, he knew. There would be burn marks on his jacket from the sparks that had showered down in the train crash. Fortunately John's powers of observation, while improving, hadn't reached that level yet.

"Sherlock, what happened?"

"Nothing," Sherlock brushed some of the grit from his jacket and trousers. Anderson was back again, talking to Lestrade. He was wiping his hand against his trouser leg, looking distinctly annoyed. So he'd found the petroleum jelly spread over the showerhead, then. Sherlock sighed. Trust Anderson to blunder in and ruin a promising dataset three weeks in the making.

"It wasn't nothing!" John said. "If it's Moriarty, it's never nothing. Will you please just tell me what he did?"

Sherlock thought about it for a moment. "No."

John threw up his hands. "Fine! All right, fine. As usual, then. How am I supposed to help you if you never tell me anything?"

"You do help me," Sherlock pointed out. "You do what I tell you."

John stared at him for a moment. "Thanks for that, Sherlock. Thanks a lot."

John was angry. John was much less pleasant when he was angry. He was also far less inclined to run Sherlock's errands or make him tea. Sherlock cast about for something to say that would reassure John of his value in their partnership, something that would change him from angry John back to helpful, tea-making John.

"You're much better to talk to than the skull," he said.

John blinked. Sherlock could see him trying to hold onto his frown, but the corners of his mouth were twitching. Then he gave in and laughed. "Oh, Lord. All those years of medical school, the army, and that's what they'll put on my gravestone. 'He was better than a skull.' You are impossible, you know that?"

Sherlock smiled. "Yes." Moriarty was back, making things interesting again, and Sherlock had John on his side and the prospect of tea in his future. All was right with the world.

Lestrade was returning with Anderson. "This is pointless," Anderson said as they came up. "There's nothing in there but dismembered body parts and some Year 9 chemistry experiments gone horribly wrong. We could arrest you for mutilating a corpse, maybe domestic terrorism, but a bomb? No."

Sherlock gave him a dismissive glance. "You'd never get those charges to stick."

"No," Lestrade admitted. "But we've been through the flat three times, Sherlock. There's no sign of a bomb."

"That _you've_ been able to find."

"All right," Lestrade said. "So I suppose that you'd have done better?"

Sherlock didn't say anything. Anderson smirked. "Yes. Why don't you tell us poor plebeians what we've missed this time? What evidence does the great Sherlock Holmes have that there ever really was a bomb threat?"

Sherlock gritted his teeth. Anderson was intolerable, but the truth was that Jim had never actually said there was a bomb. But it had been the only possible conclusion. He'd said it was time to burn, he'd threatened John . . . not in so many words, but what else could it be? Nothing was making any sense.

"Did he give you another puzzle to solve?" Lestrade asked. "That's how it went last time, wasn't it? Solve the case by a certain time, and if you don't, boom."

"Not this time," Sherlock said.

Anderson snorted. "Right. Well, I'd say we're finished here. The next time you feel the need for attention, leave us out of it, all right?"

"Okay, lay off," John said. "Moriarty's a bomber, and he's targeted Sherlock before. It wasn't a bad assumption."

Sherlock suppressed the urge to hit something. He'd made a mistake, Anderson would never let him live this down, and now he had John defending him. And then, as if things weren't bad enough, as the detectives walked away a long black car pulled up alongside the police tape.

"Oh, God," Sherlock muttered, and turned around to go straight back into 221B. Mrs. Hudson intercepted him, wringing her hands together in anxiety. "Sherlock? Is it safe?"

"Everything's fine, Mrs. Hudson," John said, before Sherlock could shrug her off. "The police didn't find anything. They're clearing out now, you see?"

"Yeah, well, that's two hours you've cost me, mate," the cab driver was back, stinking of cigarettes and beer from his trip to the pub. "And it goes without saying that I kept the meter running."

"It was a bomb threat!" John said. "You can't hold us responsible for that."

"Ain't my problem," the cabbie's fleshy jaw jutted forward aggressively. "All I know is, someone's gotta pay me for my time."

"Shut up!" Sherlock said, pulling free of Mrs. Hudson. "All of you, just shut up. I need to think!"

"Sherlock," a smooth, cultured voice broke in. Sherlock stiffened.

"You can keep out of it as well, Mycroft."

"Oh, I don't think so. Bomb searches of your flat? But then, you do like to keep things exciting. Always the dramatist."

"It's Moriarty," Sherlock wheeled around and stalked toward his brother. "Alive, playing games and surprisingly well informed about the London train schedules for a man on the run in Bolivia."

Mycroft's eyes flickered. "So that was you," he said. He glanced over Sherlock, missing nothing, Sherlock knew, of the scrape on the heel of his hand or the grit and cinders on his clothes.

"I have a team examining the site of the railway crash. They're pulling the car apart. We'll find him."

"Don't bother," Sherlock said. "I was in that car – they won't find anything."

"What?" John said.

"I know, but one does like to make them feel useful," Mycroft said. "I do have other resources at my command. I assure you, we will find him."

"Oh, good!" Sherlock flashed his brother his brightest smile. "It's so nice to feel assured."

"No, hang on, _what?_" John said. "What car? What crash?"

Mycroft glanced down, rubbing his thumb over the handle of his umbrella. Sherlock saw it, and Mycroft knew that he saw it, which meant that Mycroft wanted him to see it. Using body language to signal nervousness, suggesting a vulnerability that neither he nor Sherlock had ever actually felt. Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

"In the meanwhile, until Moriarty is apprehended . . ."

"No," Sherlock said.

"You don't know what I was going to say," Mycroft protested.

"Yes I do," Sherlock said. "And you know that I do. And the answer is no."

"Oh for pity's sake, what now?" John asked.

"Until Moriarty is apprehended, would I please be a good boy and not shake off the surveillance team or disable the wireless bugs that Mycroft's agent planted in our flat during the bomb inspection," Sherlock said. "And my answer is no."

"Really, Sherlock. I don't know where you get these ideas," Mycroft said, tucking his umbrella under his arm. "All I was going to ask was that you exercise a little more caution. Let me help."

"You want to help? Fine," Sherlock said. "You can pay the cab driver. Good night."

Turning on his heel, he strode back to 221B. He cut through the dispersing crowd and ran up the stairs, banging the door behind him. The flat was a shambles: books and furniture strewn about, the carpet torn up and six experiments hopelessly ruined. Sherlock growled under his breath and strode through to his bedroom. Another three experiments were disrupted here, his bed turned over on its side and his clothes piled on the floor amid a litter of broken glass, nicotine patches and violin sheet music.

First, Sherlock checked that the wallpaper was smooth and undisturbed over his little box's hiding place. It was. Then he picked up the clock from where it had fallen off his bedside table and, after fishing a penknife from his pocket, unscrewed its back. He pulled the tiny microphone from its depths and returned to the front room. There he extracted another bug from an almost invisible slit in the sofa's upholstery. He was searching the kitchen when John came up the stairs.

"Jesus!" John halted in the doorway, surveying the destruction. "Are they sure a bomb didn't go off in here?"

"Trust Anderson to be thorough, if unobservant," Sherlock said, feeling behind the refrigerator. "If there's a way to overturn every stone without ever actually seeing what's right under his nose, he'll do it."

His questing fingers brushed against a third microphone taped to the fridge's back, and he pulled it out with a triumphant flourish. He dropped the equipment into a large beaker on the kitchen table and began to look through the jumble that Lestrade's team had made of his chemical stores.

John picked his way to his chair and, after digging the remote control out from under a pile of his DVDs, turned on the TV. "Is this what Mycroft was talking about?"

Sherlock glanced up. The BBC news was showing images of a partially derailed train, a smashed-up car nearby.

"Mmm." He poured hydrochloric acid over Mycroft's surveillance equipment and listened to the hiss.

"For God's sake, Sherlock!" John threw down the remote and got to his feet. "You mean you were _in that car_ and you didn't tell me?"

"I wasn't in it when the train hit it."

"That isn't the point! Mycroft was right. If Moriarty's back, you have to be more careful. He said he would kill you."

"Not right away."

"Not . . . Sherlock, he's insane. You do get that, right? He came damn close to killing both of us last time, and I, for one, do not want a repeat. Okay?"

Sherlock didn't answer. John came into the kitchen. "Okay? Sherlock? Were you listening to a word I said?"

"Yes." Thick white fumes were rolling off the beaker now.

John coughed, putting a hand over his nose and mouth. "What are you doing?"

"Destroying government property."

"Destroying . . . oh, bloody hell –" John hurried to open a window. Grabbing a tea towel from the pile that Lestrade's team had made of their kitchen supplies, he snatched up the bubbling beaker and thrust it out onto the windowsill. "You did chemistry, properly, in university. Didn't they teach you about fume hoods?"

"Mmm. Dull." Sherlock wandered into the living room and threw himself down on the sofa. He heard the window slide shut, and then John's footsteps returning.

"So Mycroft was spying on us."

Sherlock cracked open one eye. "Damaging to your ego though it may be to know this, John, you are hardly the first person Mycroft has approached with his little proposition. Or the last. He has spies planted on Lestrade's team, the bomb squad, in the A&E of every hospital in London, and at Bart's. He's been itching to get back in here ever since I dismantled the cameras after Lestrade's last drugs bust. Of course he wasn't going to pass this up."

"Of course." John paused. "Hang on. _Lestrade_ is working for Mycroft?"

"No. Anderson is."

"Oh." John sighed. "All right. You don't have to use Mycroft's help. But, Sherlock, this is serious. Whatever Moriarty's game is, stay out of it. Just walk away."

"I may not have the choice."

"I know, I just . . ." John trailed off and shook his head. "No more trains, okay?"

"Okay," Sherlock agreed. "No more trains."

"Right then." John took a breath and squared his shoulders. He looked around at the mess, and his shoulders sagged again. "I can't deal with this now. I'm going to bed."

John was halfway to the stairs when Sherlock said, "It's unlikely to be a train again, anyway. You said yourself that we don't do the same thing twice."

John stopped. His head dropped forward for a moment, and then he went on.

Sherlock waited until the distant creak of springs upstairs told him that John was safely in bed. Then, jumping off the sofa, he hurried to his room. His jacket was ruined, and the dirt ground under his clothes was making his skin itch. With swift economy of motion he stripped off and pulled a fresh suit from the pile in front of his wardrobe. The bathroom was in a similar state to the rest of the flat: towel pegs hanging askew, towels piled half in and half out of the shower, the contents of the medicine cabinet emptied into the sink. Sherlock spared a passing moment of regret for his ruined oxidation experiment – a brilliant compromise, it had been, and proof that he _was _capable of compromise, whatever Mycroft said. John objected to petroleum jelly spread over the tap in the sink, but he was too short to notice the showerhead.

He showered quickly, washing the grit off his hair, and then, as the towels were now soaked, dried himself with one of John's shirts that was hanging over the doorknob. Three minutes later he was dressed and curled up in his living room chair with two nicotine patches on his arm and his violin in his hand. He needed to think.

_Fact: Moriarty returned to action after 18 months' silence._

_Probability: In London (near certainty, ref: demonstrated preference for personal interaction with self)_

_Fact: Mycroft's network world-wide, but most concentrated in London (ref: self, interfering with. Bastard.)_

_Conclusion 1: Moriarty's purpose worth increased risk of capture/injury/death._

_ Probable purpose: Revenge/injury/death of self._

_ Additional purpose? Unknown._

_Statement/Threat: 'Time to Burn.'_

_Correlate to previous statement/vow/threat: 'I will burn the heart out of you.'_

_Fact: 'I' = Moriarty._

_Fact: 'You' = self._

_Fact: 'Heart' = _. . .

Sherlock tapped his fingers against the violin strings, frowning. Two years ago he would have said, with perfect honesty, that the only heart he possessed was the biological organ that pumped blood through his circulatory system. Now . . .

_Supposition: 'Heart' = poetic/literary reference to centre of emotional/spiritual well being. See also: Love._

_Hypothesis 1: 'Heart' = Mycroft._

_ Data 1a: Fraternal emotions/closeness societal norm._

_ Data 1b: Neither Mycroft nor self comply with societal norm._

_Fact: Mycroft not captured/threatened/harmed._

_ Data 1a: Moriarty's network compromised. Estimated capability of capture/threat/harm to Mycroft: nil._

_ (Query: Is there any agent/organisation capable of capture/threat/harm to Mycroft? File, save. Analyse later.)_

_Fact: Moriarty would be an idiot to believe Mycroft = self's heart._

_Fact: Moriarty is not an idiot._

_Conclusion: Hypothesis false, discard._

For the sake of completeness, Sherlock swiftly ran through a list of his other living family members and acquaintances, absently picking at the violin strings while he did so, but none of them fit the criteria either.

_Mrs. Hudson. Lestrade. Molly. Stamford. Sebastian. Donovan. Anderson. (Ugh.)_

No, no, no, no, no, no and, dear God, _no_. Moriarty was watching him, had been watching him for years, judging by the evidence. He knew that Sherlock didn't interact with any of his limited family relations if he could possibly avoid it, and he knew that Sherlock had no real colleagues or friends, except one.

_Hypothesis 2: 'Heart' = John._

Sherlock repeatedly plucked the E string with his thumbnail, barely registering the high tone that it made. It was John. It had to be John. Moriarty himself had said it, that he'd shown his hand, given himself away . . .

_Fact: John not captured/threatened/harmed._

_Why?_

Frustrated, Sherlock took his bow and began to scrape it over the strings, resting his violin on his knee. There was a groan from upstairs.

_Fact: Capture/injury/harm of John = arrest/death of perpetrator._

This fact had been known in London's criminal underworld for at least a year, ever since Sherlock had finished with the Black Lotus. General Chan had been beyond his reach, killed before he got to her, but he'd dealt a severe enough blow to the rest of the gang that the syndicate had been forced to scale back its London operations. Word got around.

_Hypothesis 2a: Knowledge of consequences prevented John's capture._

But that was patently absurd. Sherlock had never let any risk or threat prevent him from doing what he wanted to do, when he wanted to do it. Moriarty wouldn't either.

_Hypothesis 2b: Moriarty unable to reach John._

Again, false. There were ways of ensuring that John was kept out of Jim's reach, but John would never agree to them. And, since most of them involved accepting Mycroft's help, Sherlock wouldn't agree either.

The bow scraped violently upward, drawing a shriek from the violin. There was a thump of feet upstairs.

_Fact: John safe = GOOD._

This was true. This was _good_ in a way that fit both John's definition of the word and Sherlock's. But _why?_

_Hypothesis 2c: Moriarty biding his time._

This seemed the most probable answer. But again, why?

The living room door banged open as John entered. He was dressed in his sleep clothes (_boxer shorts and t-shirt, t-shirt inside out, inference: slept in boxer shorts only due to heat, put shirt on in dark)_ and barefoot. His hair was sticking up on the left side (_inference: bomb squad pulled down curtains from John's window, he lay with his head turned to side to avoid light from streetlamp)_ and he looked ill-rested and irritable.

"Will you please _stop that?_"

"Cup of tea would be lovely, thanks," Sherlock said, drawing his bow over the D string.

"No, Sherlock, I mean it. I've had a hell of a day thanks to you, and I need to sleep."

Sherlock switched to the A string. "I need to think."

"And I need to sleep. I have work tomorrow."

Sherlock didn't answer. John heaved a sigh. "Can't you be quiet while you think?"

"No."

"Sherlock, I swear, I am two seconds away from throwing that damned violin out of the bloody window –"

Sherlock straightened in his chair, tucked his violin under his chin, and began to play Elgar's _Concerto in B Minor._

John paused. Sherlock knew that John knew about as much about classical music as Sherlock did about astronomy, but there were some things he liked. Elgar was one of them. "Oh . . . all right then. Just play it quietly, will you?"

Sherlock didn't answer, but lightened the bow's touch on the strings accordingly. John's expression softened in a familiar look: half-fond, half-exasperated. He turned and went into the kitchen, switching on the light as he did so. Sherlock played gently, one ear cocked to the sounds of John fishing the kettle out from under the kitchen table and running water from the tap.

Playing a structured piece of music did not prevent Sherlock from thinking, but it did impose an outside order on his thoughts, shifting the rapid fire of ideas and correlations into a smoother, slower chain of cause and effect. It was another compromise, but with John here and safe and making tea, it was a compromise that Sherlock was willing to make.

In due time the kitchen light switched off and John returned, two steaming mugs in his hands. There was a thump and a muttered curse as he stubbed his toe against something in the dark (_a book, from the sound and location, but a heavy one. Probability: Medical Dictionary. Estimated time until John's night vision returns: three minutes._) He set Sherlock's cup on the coffee table and sat down on the sofa with the other one, stretching his bare legs out before him.

"I thought you were going to bed," Sherlock spoke without lifting his head from the violin's chinrest.

"I am," John took a sip of his tea. "In a minute."

Sherlock changed pieces, switching from Elgar to a Mozart sonata without a break between them. John listened while he finished his tea, sinking lower and lower into the sofa. Sherlock continued to play while John's eyelids drooped and the empty mug sagged from his fingers.

_Fact: If Moriarty hurts John, I will hunt him down and make him _suffer_ before he dies._

Time to burn, indeed.

John slept, sprawled half on, half off the sofa, snoring gently.

Sherlock played on.


	3. Chapter 3

John awoke with a crick in his neck and his hands tied together. He became aware of the latter fact when, groaning, he reached to rub his neck and found that he couldn't. Startled, he opened his eyes, blinking to clear his vision.

His hands were tied together with what looked like the belt from Sherlock's dressing gown. They were tied in front of him, but the belt looped snugly under his legs as he reclined on the sofa, preventing him from raising them. His ankles were also bound and, moreover, tied to the leg of the coffee table.

"Sherlock!" John twisted in place, trying to see into the kitchen. "Sherlock, what the hell?"

"Good morning, John." His flatmate appeared in the doorway, perfectly composed in a clean white shirt, black jacket and trousers, bearing a cup and saucer. "I made you tea."

"You made . . . you _tied me up!_ Let me go! Now!"

Sherlock crossed the room to set the cup on the coffee table. He stepped back, surveying John with a weather eye. "No."

"_It wasn't a request!_ I have to go to work!"

"No, you don't. I rang the surgery and told them you were off sick." Sherlock sounded inordinately proud of himself for this.

John groaned. "I can't be off sick today. I have rounds this morning, and I was 'off sick' for two weeks during the whole thing with Sebastian Moran. They aren't going to keep me on if I keep calling in sick."

"They have other doctors. I only have one you."

John blinked. "What?"

Sherlock sat in his chair, steepling his fingers before him. "It's perfectly simple. Moriarty is seeking revenge on me. He has repeatedly indicated that his intention is not to kill me, at least not immediately. He wishes to cause me distress. His next logical target, therefore, is you."

"So you tied me up?"

"To keep you from leaving the flat before I could explain, yes." Sherlock looked pleased.

John took a deep breath, keeping firm hold of his temper. "I see. Now that you have explained, will you untie me?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "If I do, will you stay?"

John resisted the urge to roll his eyes, and instead faced Sherlock with a smile. "Of course."

Sherlock looked away. "You're lying. You know I don't like it when you lie to me."

"Fine!" John snapped. "You want honesty? I'm pissed off, all right? You _tied me up_, Sherlock!" he was shouting, and didn't care. "You complain about your brother, and then you go and do this? You can't just – you can't dictate what I do or where I go. I have a _life_, Sherlock. I have a job, and a girlfriend – or I would, if you didn't keep scaring them away. I have _things to do_ and I'm not going to be a pawn in this insane game or courtship ritual or whatever the hell it is going on between you and Moriarty."

Sherlock did not move or change expression during this outburst. When John finished, breathing hard, Sherlock pursed his lips. "Anger is not an unreasonable response, under the circumstances. It was to be expected."

John did roll his eyes this time, letting his head thump back against the sofa cushion. "Oh, that's good, then. I'd hate to be _unreasonable_, under the circumstances."

There was a pause. "Your tea should have cooled to an acceptable temperature now," Sherlock offered.

John snorted. "Thanks. Although I think I might have a bit of trouble drinking it like this." To illustrate he lifted his hands the short length permitted them by the belt, and let them fall back into his lap.

"I could hold the cup for you."

"No." John shook his head. "Not a chance."

Another pause. John picked surreptitiously at the belt. Then he tried to pull one hand free, even though he knew perfectly well that Sherlock could see what he was doing. The knot around his wrists only tightened. He gave it up. "My nose itches."

"I could –"

"No."

They sat in silence for a time. Then John looked over at Sherlock. "You know I have to go to the toilet."

"I did realise that, yes."

"And?" John lifted his hands again by way of suggestion.

"I don't mind if you urinate on the sofa."

"You don't – _I mind_, Sherlock! For God's sake! I need to go to the toilet, and I need a shower, and I need to get dressed. I need you to untie me, damn it!"

Sherlock tapped his steepled fingers against his lips, evidently thinking.

John sighed. "Listen. I promise I won't go anywhere alone, okay? I don't fancy being kidnapped again any more than you do."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him. "Really?"

"Really," John said. "I have better things to do today, honest."

One thing about Sherlock Holmes: once a decision was made, he didn't hesitate. In a few deft motions he'd untied John's wrists. John flexed his fingers, working the cramp from his hands while Sherlock attended to his ankles.

"Thanks." John got to his feet, rubbing his nose. Sherlock didn't answer.

John stretched, wincing as his spine cracked. "If you ever do that to me again, Sherlock, I swear to God I'll punch you in the face. I'll break your nose."

Sherlock tossed the belt from his dressing gown over the arm of the sofa. "Unlikely. I have some experience in martial arts, John, particularly in boxing. The form may not be the same as is taught in military defence classes, but the principle is similar."

"Fine. I'll smash your violin instead."

"It's a Stradivarius."

"I don't care. And I'll clean the kitchen. I mean it. That mould collection you've got in the fridge? Gone. The hand? Binned. And all your chemistry equipment, and your microscope, and – and your skull. I'll give your skull to Mycroft, Sherlock, I really will."

"You wouldn't dare." But Sherlock was looking alarmed, and he stole a worried glance at the skull on the mantelpiece.

John couldn't help it. His lips twitched, and then, as Sherlock stared at him in consternation, John began to giggle. Sherlock smiled uncertainly in return.

"God," John gasped, catching his breath. "I need a shower."

Sherlock moved to the table and opened his laptop while John went to the bathroom. There was a sound of running water, and the toilet flushed. Then John's voice raised as he swore. "Christ, Sherlock! What have you done to the towels?"

Sherlock smiled. He loaded his website and glanced at the comments section. Three case requests since yesterday, two of which were so dull as to be unworthy of a response. The third was a pathetic attempt to lure him into a trap, most likely in revenge for the prostitution ring he'd broken up last week.

He tried John's blog. It had, he noted with some distaste, grown inexplicably popular over the past year and a half. John's style of writing, with its blend of cheap sensationalism and pulp fiction romance, along with his blatant disregard for the analytical process, had evidently struck a chord. John had _fans._ There was a flurry of chatter from the unwashed masses following his last entry ('_The Adventure of the Empty Flat'_, _John, really?_) and a message from Harriet Watson suggesting drinks to celebrate Sebastian Moran's downfall.

No sign of Moriarty.

The bathroom door opened and John emerged in a waft of steam, dripping, his boxer shorts clinging to him in large damp patches and his t-shirt bunched protectively against his chest. He strode through the living room without a word and headed up the stairs to his room. Sherlock leaned back in his chair.

_What is he waiting for?_ The game was on, Jim had made his challenge and Sherlock had accepted and now . . . nothing. It was distinctly annoying.

Five minutes later John returned. His hair was combed and he was dressed in the casual trousers and light jumper that he usually wore to the surgery. Sherlock was immediately on guard.

"What are you doing?"

"Seeing if there's anything edible in here," John opened the refrigerator. "Then I'm going to work."

"You can't. You promised."

"I promised that I wouldn't go anywhere alone," John said. He pulled out half a loaf of bread and a jar of marmalade and turned around. "And I won't. I called Mycroft. One of his men is going to escort me."

"You _what?_" Sherlock would not have been more shocked if John had suddenly announced that he was going out with Sergeant Donovan.

"You heard me." John looked around for the toaster.

"But . . . that's . . . you . . ." Sherlock had rarely ever been at a loss for words before. He didn't like it. And, he remembered, Mycroft had been responsible for the two previous times that it had happened to him as well.

John gave him a smug look.

Sherlock drew himself up to his full height. "You don't want to use the marmalade."

"Why not?" John opened the jar, sniffed it. "Jesus, Sherlock! What have I told you about using food containers for experiments?"

"It's only a little formaldehyde."

"You could at least label it!" John thumped the jar down and headed for the door. "Never mind. I'll grab something from the café."

"John," Sherlock hesitated, torn.

_Fact: Most obvious target for revenge/pain to self = John._

_Fact: Opportunity for capture/injury of John not taken._

_Supposition: Moriarty waiting . . . for what?_

_Hypothesis: Alternate target? Unknown. Insufficient data._

_Fact: Mycroft's bodyguard = defence/offence/surveillance expertise._

_Fact: Mycroft aware of consequences for capture/injury of John._

_ Note: Contact Mycroft. Reiterate consequences._

_Fact: John's absence = freedom to act._

"Yes?" John paused at the door, looking back at him.

Sherlock swallowed. "Be careful."

John grinned. "Yes, mother."

He winked and headed downstairs. Sherlock went to the window, pulling his mobile from his pocket. He took a breath, steeling himself, and then thumbed his contacts list.

"Sherlock," Mycroft answered on the first ring. "Twice in less than twenty-four hours. To what do I owe the pleasure of this unheralded event?"

"Did John call you?" Sherlock watched as a black car pulled up to the kerb in front of 221B.

"Yes. That's my car collecting him now."

"The driver?"

"Kevin Lane, aged 43, former prize fighter and sharp shooter. Ranked Master Shooter in the International Pistol Association's Commonwealth Cup, 2010. That's rather good, I'm told. In my employ for the past eight years. Married with three children, two biologically his, the third adopted from his wife's previous marriage. Tested and proved loyal on two occasions, in 2003 and 2007."

Sherlock watched as John approached the car and spoke to the huge black man who unfolded himself from the driver's seat. John was not a tall man, and next to Kevin Lane he looked tiny.

"Where is he taking John?"

"To work, I believe."

Sherlock growled low in his throat. "Don't play games with me, Mycroft."

There was a pause.

"No, I'll leave that to your other nemesis, shall I?" Mycroft said mildly. "John's surgery is under 24 hour surveillance. There has been no suspicious activity there in the past week. Two of his scheduled patients this morning are in my employ. If there is the slightest hint of danger he will be immediately removed to a secure location."

"You should take him there now."

"You would have me kidnap him?"

Sherlock hesitated. A kidnapped John was an unhappy John, regardless of how justified the cause. And truly, if he were the target then wouldn't Moriarty have taken him at the same time that he sent the false cab to get Sherlock? But every instinct that Sherlock possessed was screaming that John was in danger.

"There was a lapse of two hours, forty-eight minutes between the time that you left the flat yesterday and the time that I became aware of James Moriarty's return," Mycroft continued. "If Moriarty intended to kill John Watson, he surely had the opportunity then."

"I _know_," Sherlock snarled. "None of this makes any sense."

"Perhaps."

Something in the way Mycroft said that put Sherlock on full alert. "What do you mean?"

"Well . . ." Mycroft began, and Sherlock gritted his teeth. Mycroft could cram enough unctuous superiority into that one word for a whole battalion of Andersons.

"_What?_"

"If his intention is to simply kill the people you are closest to, then you are correct. This delay is nonsensical. But if his intention is to maximise your suffering in the process, then it rather fits, does it not? Knowing that the blow will fall, but not knowing when or where, may well constitute a torture in itself."

Sherlock didn't answer. In the street below, John was getting into the car. Sherlock watched as it pulled silently away.

"Or so I'm led to believe," Mycroft added.

"Shut up. If anything happens to him –"

"Yes, I know, thank you. Has it occurred to you that your rather obvious emotional attachment to Dr. Watson is the reason he makes such a tempting target for your enemies?"

Sherlock closed his eyes, his hand tightening on the phone. "Yes."

A hint of irritation crept into Mycroft's polished tone. "And, while we're on the subject of the people closest to you, I'll just look after myself, shall I?"

Sherlock blinked. "Do you honestly think that Moriarty can reach you?"

"Oh, goodness no." The uncustomary irritation in Mycroft's voice gave way to a much more familiar amusement.

"Then don't waste my time."

"Quite right," Mycroft said. "It was nothing, just a passing fancy. My apologies."

"Fine. Keep John safe, and keep out of my way."

"While you go after Moriarty, I presume?"

"Problem?"

"Not if you let me send backup."

"Can I stop you?"

"No."

"Then do what you like. I'm busy." Sherlock thumbed off the mobile and looked out again into the empty street. In the reflection of the window his lips drew back in a thin, dangerous smile. Stuffing the mobile into his pocket, he ran for the stairs, taking them two at a time up to John's bedroom, and John's gun.

_Conclusion: Enough waiting. My turn now._

l

Taking the game to Moriarty proved to be absurdly easy. In the end, Sherlock simply went for a walk.

It was a fine summer's day, and he went without his coat or scarf. He felt curiously vulnerable without them, despite the solid bulk of John's pistol at his waist. Walking in the sunshine, the light breeze tangling his hair, he was acutely aware of the security cameras that swivelled to watch his progress, and the plain-clothes agent following half a block behind.

This was ridiculous. Moriarty would never reveal himself to Mycroft's surveillance. The only chance Sherlock had of confronting him was if he escaped his brother's web. So he did.

Not even Mycroft knew London the way he did. Mycroft's London was in black and white: grainy streets and shops captured by a grid of carefully positioned cameras. What little of the city he saw in person was invariably viewed through the tinted glass of his town car. Sherlock went down back alleys and across rooftops, through vacant houses and boarded up factories, into the sewers and out again. He shook off Mycroft's tail in the first five minutes, and ten minutes after that he was in a park, under the shade of trees that effectively blocked the CCTV.

He estimated that he had twenty minutes before Mycroft picked up his trail again. He'd barely waited three when Moriarty approached, in the form of a female agent dressed as a university student with a worn navy-blue backpack and a gaze that was too hard and empty to be anything but the look of a killer.

She stopped a few feet away. Sherlock noted the bulge of the gun under her jacket, and the flesh-coloured wire that ran from her earpiece down the side of her neck and under her clothes.

"Come out to play, Sherlock?" she asked, and some of Jim's glee bled through even her flat tone.

"I think we've had enough of playing," Sherlock said.

"Oh no," she said, and Sherlock could picture Jim's smile. "We're just getting started. I've got the board all set up now, come and see."

There was a sudden, sharp pain in Sherlock's neck, and he lifted his hand to pull out the tranquiliser dart. He looked at it, glittering in his hand, and then turned to look up at the office block across the street. A leaden numbness was creeping into his limbs. He turned back to the girl.

"Hardly original, Jim." He had to fight to keep his words from slurring as darkness crept into the corners of his vision. "I'd hoped for better from you. How . . . disappointing."

To his profound annoyance, the world went black.


	4. Chapter 4

_Cold._

_Hard._

_Smell . . . metal. Iron? No. Steel. Grate._

_Discomfort._

_Don't move._

_Remember . . . error. Insufficient data._

_Noise . . . fans. Air conditioning. Machinery._

_Where?_

_Cold, steel grate, machinery = not home. Hypothesis: factory._

_Conclusion: Moriarty._

"Wakey-wakey!"

Sherlock didn't move. The grate was pressing into his cheek as he lay on the floor. It was digging into his skin, the cold metal leaching through his clothes. The muzziness was dissipating as his nerves regained sensation, the leaden weight fading from his arms and legs. His feet were freezing.

He was not tied-up. This was something of a surprise, but it suggested two things to his waking mind. First, he was locked in a cell or something similar that prevented escape, therefore making handcuffing or otherwise restraining him unnecessary. Second, Jim had taken his gun.

"Come on, Sherlock, I know you're faking. Now be a good boy and let's play."

There was no more data to be found by lying here. Sherlock opened his eyes and sat up, ignoring the rush of dizziness as he did so. The cold bite of metal as he drew his feet under him made him aware that his socks and shoes were missing. Apart from that, he was fully clothed. He blinked to clear his vision.

It wasn't a cell. Or at least, not a standard one.

The cavernous room stretched out before him, thirty feet long, blank concrete walls and a raised metal grid for the floor.

"That's better! Did you sleep well?"

Speakers in the ceiling to carry Jim's voice, cameras in each of the four corners to watch Sherlock's movements. Expected, dull. Sherlock ignored Jim for the moment, concentrating instead on the floor. This was a much more interesting study.

The metal grid was raised two feet above the factory's concrete floor. A network of thick electrical cables ran below it. The grid itself consisted of a coarse steel mesh interspersed with large squares, each two feet wide, also made of metal. There were perhaps fifty of these squares scattered over the length of the room, with no apparent pattern to their dispersion. Each square was labelled with a large capital letter from the English alphabet, again with no evident pattern to the spacing of consonants and vowels.

"Do you like it? You know I made it just for you."

"Impressive," Sherlock stood up. The raised metal edges of the grid cut into his bare feet. He stepped onto a nearby square to relieve the pressure. This square was labeled with a large letter _S._

"My shoes?"

"All in good time, my dear. You don't want to spoil the game."

Sherlock sighed. "Ah yes, the all-important game. You do realise that it would be simpler just to kill me?"

"Oh, don't be like that." Jim was pouting. Sherlock could hear it in his voice. "You can't skip to the end. Where's the fun in that?"

"Fun. Right." Sherlock made his voice flat, unenthusiastic, the way he expected that John would react to this situation. Inside he was thrilling with delight at the novelty, the danger, and the promise of not being bored for at least another few hours.

The only visible exit was a plain steel door set into the far wall, thirty feet away. Sherlock studied it. No lock was visible; in fact he could discern a line of light all the way around the door, suggesting that it was partially ajar.

"The game, then. I presume the object is to escape. No windows in the walls or openings in the ceiling, and the floor is inaccessible, so it must be through that door. But I can't just walk across the room and leave, or it wouldn't be a game. Explain."

"Oh, you're going to love this," Jim giggled. "Tell me, Sherlock, have you ever seen _Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade?_"

Sherlock blanked. That sounded like a pop culture reference, probably to a film. The reference to a Crusade suggested some historical connection, possibly a BBC docudrama? But the phrasing, _Indiana Jones and_, sounded like fiction. Had John ever said anything about the Crusades?

"Is that like James Bond?"

"Oh, dear, your pet has been neglecting your education," Jim tsked. "I'm going to have to have a word with him about that."

Sherlock felt a chill at the mention of John. He did not want Jim talking about John, or thinking about John, or having anything at all to do with John, ever. John shouldn't come into this. This was between Sherlock and Moriarty, and no one else.

"Well, never mind him for now," Jim continued. "But it is a shame, because if you _had _seen it, you'd know what was coming next. Your feet _are _completely on that square, right?"

Before Sherlock could answer, the overhead sprinklers switched on, drenching the room in a fine, icy spray. He flinched under the onslaught, hunching his shoulders. The rain ended as suddenly as it had come, leaving him blinking the water out of his eyes. Water ran and dripped over the steel mesh. There were puddles on the lettered squares.

"Ooh, lovely! You really should get soaked more often – that suit is just _clinging _to you."

Sherlock pushed his dripping fringe out of his eyes. "Water, a conducting grid, and electrical cables under the floor," he said, with a calmness that he did not entirely feel. "The panel I'm standing on is insulated – why?"

"Well, that's the game, isn't it?" Jim teased. "Not all the letters are insulated, mind – just the right ones. Into the fire, Sherlock . . . electricity counts as a sort of fire, doesn't it? Let's just ramp up the charge a bit and see."

Sparks jumped and ran over the steel mesh. There was a sharp smell of ozone in the air.

"Yes, I think that'll do," Jim said cheerfully. "There's fifty thousand volts running through that floor now. Step on the wrong square and it won't be just your heart that burns."

Sherlock swallowed. "I need something to work with. I can't play the game without some clue."

"Oh, you'll figure it out. Clever you." Jim's voice dropped into a lower register, with a dark note of threat. "Remember, this is what I can do _after _you dismantled half my organisation. . . . How does it feel to be helpless, Sherlock?"

"I don't know." Sherlock eyed the three squares within jumping distance of him. _J, A, _and _H._ "I'll let you know if I ever experience it."

He was standing on _S._ _A_ offered some possibility, but from there the only reachable squares looked to be _N_ or _Z._ Not likely. _J_ was out of the question. He took a breath, the ozone sharp in his lungs. He leaped, sailing over the sparking, spitting grid and landing hard on the _H._

He staggered, caught his balance, and stood, breathing hard. His heart was racing, but though the grid was crackling with the water displaced by his landing, the lethal charge didn't touch him.

"Oh, bra_vo!_" Jim applauded. "Isn't this fun?"

It was, but Sherlock wasn't about to admit it. John would definitely consider that _not good._ Anyway, the next options were _L, E, _or _B_, so he had the first word now. He jumped again, and again, moving from _E _to _R _to _L_ to _O _to _C _to _K_ before he had to stop and consider.

_SHERLOCK_. He stood on the K, a third of the way across the floor now, and surveyed his options. _I_, _D_, or _B._ _SHERLOCK I._ From the _I _a _C_ was reachable. _SHERLOCK I CAN_. That was a possibility. So was _B._ _SHERLOCK BEG_ and _SHERLOCK BYE_ were both viable. _SHERLOCK D_ seemed less likely . . . but that led in the direction of the door, while both _I_ and _B_ would take him on a path towards the side of the room.

He licked his lips.

"What's wrong?" Jim tittered. "Can't you work the next bit out? Oh, what's the matter, is my little puzzle too hard for the great Sherlock Holmes? Maybe you want to stop now. You can, you know. All you have to do is admit that I beat you."

"Hardly," Sherlock muttered. He straightened and began to pull off his jacket, struggling to extricate himself from the sleeves.

"Ooh, _baby!_" Jim crowed in delight. "I can't tell you how glad I am this is on tape."

Sherlock ignored this. Balling the jacket in his hands, he took careful aim. He tossed it, underhand, and the wet fabric sailed in a low arc to land squarely on the letter _I._ There was a flash of blue light, and sparks shot crackling across the grid. A haze of smoke joined the smell of ozone in the air.

"Now that's just cheating," Jim pouted.

"The tranquiliser dart was cheating," Sherlock said. "This is just evening the score."

"Oh, all right, it is. But Sherlock, darling, as much as I'd _love _to see you get out of those wet clothes, I'm going to have to insist. My game, my rules. Try that trick again, and you'll never leave this room alive."

Sherlock didn't answer. He was studying his remaining options. _D_ or _B._ _SHERLOCK BEG_ was more likely than _SHERLOCK BYE_, given Moriarty's obvious predilections, but beg what? From whom? By the time he got to the _G_ he'd be backed up against the side wall, and there was no clear place to go from there.

_D_ was also problematic. _SHERLOCK DIE _was possible, but that rather left him stranded in the middle of the room with no path forward. It was possible that was the intention, but not likely. John would say it was crazy to trust Moriarty to set a fair game, but Sherlock knew better. Leading him into a trap would be boring. There was no interest in a game that couldn't be won. It was a twisted logic, but between Sherlock and Jim it made sense.

_SHERLOCK DIE _had a certain finality to it. There wasn't much to be added to a statement like that, unless it was _NOW_ or _SOON_, and neither of those words was possible from the letters he could see.

What else? From the _D_ he could reach _I_ or _F_ or _K_ . . . no good. There wasn't anything else except . . . he stopped. That was it. The answer leapt at him from the lettered grid – far, it was at least a four foot jump and he'd never have seen it if he hadn't been looking for it. But this was James Moriarty, and he was Sherlock Holmes, and he _had been _looking for it.

_I like to watch you dance._

The _A_ was just barely within reach of the _D_. From there . . . Sherlock traced the path across the floor as far as he could see. Which was as far as the _C_, and that would only get him three quarters of the way to the door. The spaces between letters were long, too – none less than three feet apart, some with more than a five-foot gap between them. He'd have to run, he'd never make some of those jumps from a standing position. There'd be no time to stop and consider, no time to correct himself if he went wrong. He had to see, instantly, every option, even as he landed on each square; more: he had to _know._ He had to be right from the beginning, and the letters he was expecting had to be there when he reached them. If they weren't, he'd die.

Sherlock grinned. The adrenalin was spiking in his veins, and more, better than any drug was the certainty that he'd worked it out, that he was clever, that he was _right._ And he was right. When it came to Jim, he could never be wrong.

"Nap time's _o_-ver," Jim sang. "Come on, Sherlock, move or you'll never get to the next game. And I know you don't want to miss that. It's to _die _for."

"I'm sure it is," Sherlock murmured. He took a breath, centring himself, and focused on the path ahead. Then he was moving, leaping from square to square so quickly that he'd barely touched one before he was flying to the next.

_D, A, N_ – a long jump, five feet and that was long for even his legs, but he had momentum now and he made it –_ C, E_ and he had to orient himself off the bare glimpse of the grid ahead even in mid-air because he had to keep moving, and there was an _S_, he hadn't anticipated an _S_ and maybe he was wrong but he couldn't change course now, so he leapt straight over the _S_ to land on the _F_ because that was the plan, and he barely noted that he hadn't been electrocuted before he jumped to the _O, _a swift look and a twist in mid-air when he spotted the _R_ two feet to the right of where it should have been_, M,_ he was almost there now, _E_ and the door was partially ajar, just as he'd expected.

_SHERLOCK DANCE FOR ME_.

Sherlock wrenched open the door and leapt from the crackling grid down to the solid concrete of the hallway outside.

His shoes and socks were there, paired neatly together just inside the door. Sherlock sagged down to the floor next to them and rested his back against the wall, panting.

"Oh, well done, well _done!_" Jim sounded as happy as if he'd won that round, instead of Sherlock. Perhaps he had. Sherlock was well aware of what he was doing, jumping quite literally through Moriarty's hoops, but at this moment he could hardly bring himself to care. He was alive, and exultant, and he'd been _right._ Jim was the best enemy he'd ever had, except for Mycroft, and Mycroft hardly counted because theirs was a war of attrition, with no end in sight.

Jim's game was better, because it _would_ end, tonight, and Sherlock was going to win.

"Now don't just sit there, the best part is coming up next," Jim said. "Come on, come on, I can't wait to see your face!"

"You can wait a minute while I get my breath back," Sherlock said, pulling on his socks. The soles of his feet were chafed red from the metal grid, and he winced as he laced his shoes.

"I could do with a drink of water. After the drugging, and the running and jumping."

"You can have some in a bit, if you're good. Now go on and see!"

Sherlock noted the phrasing of that statement, and concluded that it meant nothing good. But his options were limited. Behind him was the cavernous room he'd just escaped, with its grid still lethally charged and the air hot with the smells of ozone and smoke. Ahead of him was a short, featureless corridor ending in a door.

Despite the irritation of being led so obviously from one test to the next, a curl of excited anticipation tightened Sherlock's stomach. It happened so rarely that he didn't know what was coming, and it was so incredibly _exciting _not to see, not to know instantly the next move, the next action or reaction of the small, limited, _boring _people around him. Whatever else he might be, Moriarty was not boring. For Sherlock, that made him a gift from the heavens.

John would definitely say that that was _not good._ But they were playing now, matched mind against mind and skill against skill, and it was _brilliant._

Sherlock stood and straightened his shirt. Then he walked down the hall and opened the door, and right at that moment was when the game stopped being fun.


	5. Chapter 5

"John!" The name was wrenched from him as the air forced itself from his lungs. Sherlock's knees went weak for a moment, and his vision greyed. Then in the next instant he was moving, running across the room to where John stood illuminated under a single harsh light in the corner.

Even in that first rush of horror, Sherlock's brain never stopped working, observing, noting every detail of the room and the computer screen against the wall as he entered and the door almost hidden in the far wall and the refraction of the light over John's head, with the result that he pulled up short a foot away, running his hands over the thick pane of glass that formed part of John's prison.

"Sherlock!" John's voice was tinny, made small by the barrier between them. He stood on a raised platform that was welded into the corner of the room, sealed in by the glass that formed a solid sheet from floor to ceiling. The prison – _tank_, Sherlock refused to acknowledge even in his own thoughts, but that was what it was, a man-sized aquarium – was about four feet square and seven feet high. The reflections in the glass made it hard to see much else. Standing in it, John was nearly of a height with Sherlock.

"How?" Sherlock whispered, but that was the wrong question. _How_ was obvious. Moriarty had beaten them. Most likely John had never made it to his surgery and all the safeguards that Mycroft had in place there. Jim had set an ambush, waylaid his car, murdered his driver – it didn't matter. What mattered was that John was here, now, when he should have been safe, and Sherlock was going to _kill_ Mycroft the next time he saw him.

"Some sort of tranquiliser gun, I think," John rubbed the back of his neck. "There was a road accident and we'd stopped . . . sorry, I don't remember much after that."

"It's all right," Sherlock said. He was scanning the walls of John's prison, barely aware of what he was saying. "It's going to be okay."

"Oh, how _sweet_," Moriarty's voice came over the intercom. Sherlock whirled, spotted the camera in the corner where he knew it had to be, and stalked towards it.

"Let him go."

"Now, don't be like that," Jim tutted. "You have such a nice pet, and you're so selfish to keep him all to yourself. Is it my fault if I want to play with him, too?"

"He isn't part of this," Sherlock said. "This is between you and me. Leave him alone. I'll do whatever you want. Whatever game you want to play – just let him go."

"Well, let me think about it . . . um,_ no._ Really, Sherlock. I mean, top points for hitting all the classics there – the display of loyalty is nauseatingly touching, but today's goal _is _to burn your heart out, after all." He laughed. "And I rather need your heart present in order to do that."

Sherlock looked back at John. John met his gaze with a little smile and a shrug. _Nice try._

Sherlock's mind was racing, his brain processing details of light and temperature and air flow (_no holes in glass, no vent in ceiling, 16 x 7 = 112 cubic feet of air, not enough, not enough, John's breathing too fast but he's a soldier, a soldier, he knows to stay calm, stay calm, think, __**think **__Sherlock_) and solid concrete walls and floor and metal ceiling and far door and sound of fans and giant screen that had to mean something, and electric cables running along the walls and over the floor and he had to think, he had to find a way out, there had to be a way out . . .

He swallowed. "What do you want me to do?"

There was a chime behind him. "Play the game," Jim said.

Sherlock turned. The large screen had lit into a grid, eight squares by eight, with the standard electronic rendering of the pieces . . .

"_Chess?_" Sherlock said.

"Of course!" Jim was grinning again. Sherlock could hear it in his voice. "It's a _classic_, didn't you know? All the best supervillains play. Which means that the heroes do as well . . . I wonder which one of us is which?"

"You're insane," Sherlock cast another look around the room. _Electric cables bolted to walls and floor, screen bolted to wall, far door locked, no chairs, nothing to break glass._

"Oh, well, I suppose that makes me the villain," Jim said. "Glad we cleared that up. Tell you what, then, I'll let you play White."

Sherlock returned his scrutiny to the tank, crouching down to balance on his toes as he examined the join between the glass and the platform on which John stood. _Glass an inch thick, steel-welded to platform and walls. No way out . . . wrong. Wrong. Stupid. How did John get in?_

"John," he said. "Can you see any opening in the walls? Anything that might be a door? It'll be hidden."

John ran his hands over the concrete behind him. "I don't think so."

"Hel-_lo_," Jim said. "I'm _waiting._"

Sherlock slid his fingers down the join between the glass and the wall, wishing for his magnifying lens. There was a groove here with a rubber seal, barely visible . . . he darted over to check the other side, and then looked up at the ceiling. So that was how they did it.

"It isn't nice to keep me waiting," Jim said. "Come on, Sherlock, I entertain you. It's only fair you do the same for me."

Sherlock ignored him, still staring at the ceiling. One bare light bulb set behind a wire cage. Solid metal unbroken except for the groove and rubber seal that ran from wall to wall, turning 90 degrees to follow the edge of the glass . . . there was a piece missing from this setup, and he had a horrible feeling that he knew what it was. Moriarty wouldn't be content with simply imprisoning John and waiting for his air to run out. He hadn't the patience.

"Hang on, there's a vent here," John said. He was down on one knee, prying at something in the concrete wall. Sherlock stepped to the side, angling his head to look past the reflection in the glass. A steel grid, about six inches square, was set into the bottom corner of the tank. Sherlock froze.

"There's something behind it," John continued, poking his fingers through the screen. "I can't see what it is . . . feels like some sort of rubber, like a hose or something."

The paralysis broke, and Sherlock whirled to face the camera. "No! Let him go – let him go _right_ _now!_"

"_Play the game!_" Jim shouted, so loudly that there was a squeal of feedback from the speaker. "Play, and I will."

Sherlock stood still, breathing hard. The situation was intolerable, John's life hung on the whim of a madman and Sherlock felt as if one of the wheels had slipped its track in his brain, his thoughts were a whirling confusion of observations that looped over and over: _glass, steel, hose, John, glass, steel, hose, John, glass, steel, hose, John, John, John – _

_Play the game._

"E –" Sherlock's voice cracked, and he cleared his throat. "E2 to E4."

"_Finally!_" Jim said as the white pawn moved up the centre of the board. At the same moment Sherlock heard a soft hissing behind him.

"John!" Sherlock whipped around. John was giving him a knowing, helpless look, and the hissing sound was coming from the vent in the bottom of his cage.

"_No!_ I'm doing it, I'm playing the game – you said you'd let him go!"

"And I will," Jim said. "As soon as the game is over." He giggled. "If you win, that is."

Sherlock's mind was a white, roaring noise. He couldn't see anything but the hideous black hole that gaped just beyond his reach, couldn't hear anything but the hiss of poison gas. He slammed his fists against the glass, backed up and rammed it with his shoulder. His breath was tearing ragged in his throat. He delivered a roundhouse kick that jarred back painfully into his hip. He staggered, caught himself and readied a punch that would surely break something: his hand if not the glass.

"_Sherlock!_ Stop!"

Sherlock stopped. John was staring at him, his hands splayed against the transparent wall of his prison. "This isn't helping. You have to stop and think. Play the game."

"I . . ." Sherlock couldn't think. John was trapped, John was going to die and _Sherlock couldn't think._

"It's okay," John said. "I'm fine, see?" He pulled off his woollen jumper and stuffed it into the corner, partially blocking the vent. "You just have to forget about me for a bit. You focus on winning the game, that's what matters."

Sherlock turned his head to look at the board on the screen. The pieces slid in and out of focus as his vision blurred, and then for one terrifying moment they stood out stark and clear and absolutely meaningless: black and white shapes on a grid that meant nothing to him at all, their names and movements swept away by the blank terror that was screaming through his mind.

"John . . . I can't . . ."

"Yes, you can," John said, and some distant part of Sherlock marvelled that he could sound so calm. "It's just a game of chess. You do know how to play, right?"

Sherlock snorted, coming back to himself. "Please. I grew up with Mycroft."

"Right," John smiled. "That's all this is, one of your games with Mycroft. You aren't going to let him win, are you?"

Sherlock didn't answer. The panic was ebbing away before John's voice, and Sherlock could think again. John was right: emotion was useless now. He had to focus, had to lock away everything he felt, all the terror and rage that was snarling his thoughts because if he didn't then John was going to die – _no! No. Think. You don't care. Not caring is easy. You do it all the time. This is no different._

Except that it was different, because this was John, and there were six point five billion ordinary, boring, mundane, stupid people on the planet who were very easy to not care about, but there was only one John.

Sherlock stopped that thought in its tracks. _Not relevant._ He looked at the chess board again, and this time it made sense. The Black King's pawn had moved to match Sherlock's in the centre of the board. He could see the pieces, what they did and where they could move and what moves would be open if they did, and what moves Moriarty – _bastard, he's killing John and I will kill him before this is over – no. _No. Start again. He could see what moves the _Black_ pieces would make in return, and how White would counter them, scenarios running through his head five moves ahead . . .

John was wrong about one thing. This was not a game against Mycroft. Mycroft was the only person who had ever been able to beat Sherlock at chess, in his entire life, ever since the first game he had played and won against his father at the age of four. Moriarty didn't stand a chance.

Sherlock took a breath. Best to end this fast.

"King's bishop to C4."

Jim's knight advanced, blocking his next move, and Sherlock hissed between his teeth. Of course Jim was well versed enough not to fall for the Fool's Mate.

"King's knight to F3."

The next several moves went quickly as they dispensed with the opening. Sherlock took early control of the centre of the board, while Jim ceded ground in favor of building his defences. It was a surprisingly cautious strategy, coming from him, but Sherlock wasn't about to waste time analysing it. For all his care Jim had left an opening in his defences, and another two moves would finish him.

Then John coughed, and Sherlock forgot everything else.

"John?"

"I'm fine." John coughed again. He was leaning against the side of the tank, his face pale, but when he saw Sherlock look at him he made an effort to stand up straight. "Sherlock, I'm fine. Concentrate on the game."

He wasn't fine. Sherlock knew it, and John knew that he knew it, but there was nothing he could do. He had to play Jim's sick, twisted game to the end.

He turned back to the board, but he was distracted, the greater part of his attention given to John's increasingly rasping breath. It was insane, John was choking to death and Sherlock was supposed to ignore him in order to play _chess?_ He made his next move in haste, just wanting it over so that he could go to John. He knew he'd made a mistake the instant his bishop appeared in the designated square, but then it was too late. The gap closed and Jim drew first blood, capturing Sherlock's bishop and threatening his Queen.

"_Damn it,_" the words were a bare murmur beneath his breath, but somehow John heard.

"Sherlock . . . it's . . . all right."

Sherlock turned. John had slid down to sit on the floor of his tank, panting. Sherlock wanted to tell him to get up – the gas was almost certainly carbon monoxide and John's seated position was much too close to the vent – but the words stuck in his throat. John rolled his head to look at him.

"Don't . . . blame . . . yourself. Not . . . your fault." John spoke in broken gasps for air, his chest heaving.

"John . . ."

"Oh, how touching," Jim broke in over the speaker. "The deathbed forgiveness scene. Don't want to miss that. Do you think, Sherlock, if you put your hand up against the glass while he's dying, he'll press his hand against yours? Oh, I hope so. It's the _best._"

"Shut up," Sherlock whispered.

Jim giggled. "Tell you what, I'll let you forfeit. As a gift from me to you. You can spend his last minutes together."

"Shut up."

"Sherlock . . ." John gasped. He closed his eyes for a long moment, and Sherlock's heart faltered in its beat. John opened his eyes again, meeting Sherlock's gaze, and spoke with an effort. "It's . . . all right. Just . . . kill this bastard . . . for me . . . okay?"

Sherlock couldn't speak. John's lips curved in what might have been a smile, and then his eyes slid shut again, and did not open.

"Awww," Jim crooned. "The brave Doctor Watson, noble to the end. Did you like that, the way he forgave you while you were killing him? Because you did kill him, you know. If you'd been just that bit faster, just that wee bit cleverer –"

"Shut _up_," Sherlock snapped. He'd spotted it, the faint rise and fall of John's chest, the grey but not yet pinched look of his skin that meant John was unconscious, but still alive.

"Oh, now, it had to end sometime, didn't it? He might have been a lovely pet, but he wasn't exactly in our league, was he? Now me, I –"

"_Shut up! I need to think!_" Sherlock strode back to the board display, and he was focused now, yes, because there were maybe five minutes left to save John's life, but if he was going to do this then he couldn't know that. So with every power of concentration he had ever had he shunted aside the turmoil of fear, clamped down and buried his stomach's roil of grief and hate and love and _focused._

The board. That was all that mattered. Sherlock deleted everything else – Jim's taunting words and John's fading breath and the fact that if John died now it would destroy Sherlock's entire world – he took that knowledge along with the sick fear that pulsed through him at the thought, and he rolled it all up and forgot it. Nothing existed but the board, Black and White, and the pieces were laid out before him, and he could see how every one of them moved, and how every one affected every other, and he _knew._

"Rook to G4."

Black countered, but Sherlock had already seen that move and the three following it, and Black retreated before him, tried to draw back behind his carefully constructed defences but Sherlock was there before him, slipping between his walls and Black tried to break out in a wildly unpredictable move, but Sherlock had already anticipated that, and the net closed with finality in the form of a knight fork and a rook pin.

"Checkmate."

"_Brilliant._ I knew you had it in you." Moriarty's words came as a surprise, as did his slow handclap. Sherlock blinked. He'd forgotten that Jim was there.

There was something else, too, that he'd deleted, something important. A grinding sound behind him made him turn, and then his legs almost gave way at the sight of John lying on his side, eyes closed. He was curled on a little platform, so small that his knees were drawn up to his chest to fit, and a long pane of glass was drawing slowly up into the ceiling above him.

"_John,_" Sherlock crossed the room in two strides and pulled the doctor to him. John looked terrible, his face was horribly pale and he was barely breathing, but he was warm and the pulse at his neck was faint but steady. The air was bad here, Sherlock became aware as he lifted John in his arms: it was hard to get his breath, and a pounding headache settled behind his temples. Belatedly he saw the vent half-concealed by John's jumper, and heard the soft hiss of gas.

He had to get John out. There was a door open just behind him, but that led back to the cavernous room where he'd first awoken, with its lethally charged grid. He'd seen another way out before, hadn't he, in his first scan of the room he was sure that he'd observed something, but he couldn't quite think of what it was.

A door, painted a dull grey to match the concrete of the far wall, clicked open.

Sherlock didn't question this. He carried John across the room, holding his breath against the gas, past the large screen still displaying its chessboard diagram and out of the door. In the empty room on the other side he set John down, noting as he did so the camera mounted in the corner of the ceiling and the green metal door set into the far wall.

He shut the door behind them. There was a rubber seal along its bottom edge that would, he hoped, be sufficient to keep out the gas. He knelt to check that John was breathing more easily and then slumped down beside him as the strength ran out of his legs. He sat with his back against the wall and his hands dangling over his knees.

"Well, that was exciting," Jim chirped over the intercom.

Sherlock didn't answer. He felt the strange mixture of exhaustion and nervous, pent up energy that meant that he'd forgotten something important, something traumatic and his brain might have deleted it but his body wasn't ready to let it go. That was bad. He frequently deleted unpleasant events when the memory served no useful purpose, but he tried to wait until the emotional charge had dissipated first. Otherwise his subconscious kept picking at it, like a scab that had not yet faded into a scar, and the memory tended to creep back. It was always worse when that happened: whatever unpleasantness was associated with the deleted memory seemed to be magnified when he was finally forced to relive it.

John groaned. Sherlock's full attention was instantly focused, watching as his breathing deepened. He checked John's pulse again, wrapping his fingers around the inside of John's wrist, and then simply held on while John blinked slowly awake.

"God," John groaned. His voice was rough, but respiration and pulse were normal. Sherlock let go of his wrist.

John rubbed his face. "My head. It's like Harry's 18th birthday all over again."

He looked around at the empty room, and then at Sherlock. He smiled a little. "Hey. You did it, then. I knew you would."

"Of course," Sherlock said automatically. Then, "What did I do?"

"Don't fish, Sherlock," John shifted himself into a more comfortable position against the wall, wincing as he did so. "You know you're brilliant, you don't need me to tell you."

"No, I . . ." Sherlock closed his eyes briefly before admitting, "I don't remember."

"What?" John gave him a concerned look. "He didn't gas you too, did he?"

Sherlock considered that. "By 'he' I presume you mean Moriarty. And no, I don't believe so. I only became aware of the gas after I went to you." He looked at John. "How did you get here? You're supposed to be with Mycroft."

John's frown deepened. "I got shot. With a dart, I think. Here, let me see." He caught Sherlock's chin, looking into his eyes. "Your pupils are equal and normal sized . . . damn, I wish I had my torch. Follow the tip of my finger."

"John, this is –"

"Stop it. Behave."

Sherlock sighed, but obediently watched as John moved his index finger from side to side, up and down. John let go of his chin and sat back, still frowning. "Well, as far as I can tell you don't have concussion. What's the last thing you remember?"

"Playing chess. Before that I was doing hopscotch with Moriarty."

John raised his eyebrows. Sherlock shook his head. "It was a thing. Don't ask."

"And you don't remember anything after that?"

"No." Sherlock hesitated. Given the evidence he could very well deduce what had happened, but he found himself reluctant to do so. His brain had noted all the relevant pieces – _John, glass, Moriarty, chess, gas_ – but was stubbornly refusing to put them together.

"I expect I deleted it."

"What?"

"I've told you before. My brain –"

"Hard drive, yeah, I know." John shook his head. "Sherlock, the solar system is one thing. I can see you forgetting primary school stuff, things you learned twenty years ago. But I was right there in front of you! How do you forget that?"

_John, curled behind glass like an insect under a bell jar –_ Sherlock shoved the image aside, shaking his head to clear it.

"It must have been necessary."

"Necessary!" John stared at him. "I don't care if it was necessary – it's bloody impossible! The human brain doesn't work that way."

"Mine does." Sherlock concentrated on breathing normally. His stomach was churning.

"No, it doesn't." John pressed his hand to Sherlock's forehead, and then touched two fingers to his neck. "You're sweating, and your pulse is racing. You didn't delete what happened, you're repressing it. Traumatised people do that all the time. Granted, not usually right at the very moment that it's happening . . ."

Sherlock pulled away, getting to his feet. "I am not traumatised."

"No, of course not." John snorted. "Your best friend was nearly killed right in front of you; why would that be traumatic?"

Sherlock stared at him. "What?"

John visibly blanched as he realised his mistake. "Never mind. Sit down, you're in shock."

"No, I . . ." Sherlock shoved his hands into his hair, tugging at his scalp as he paced the room. He had to move. His thoughts were chasing themselves in circles, he could feel the memories bulging up, threatening to break through the wall that held them back, and his skin was too tight, his skull crowded with too many observations, data, inferences that were coming dangerously close to conclusions.

"Aww, is it all getting to be a bit too much?" Jim crooned over the intercom, sickly sweet. "Does the world's only consulting detective need a blankie?"

"Shut up." John glared at the camera. "What are you waiting for? He passed your stupid test, let us go."

"Oh no, no, can't do that," Jim said. "_So _sorry, but you're rather missing the point. I can't very well burn his heart out if he's just going to go ahead and forget, can I? That's cheating. And repressing memories is very bad for one's health – _you _know that, don't you, Captain Watson? Tell you what, I'll help."

"Don't –" John began, but there was a different sound coming over the intercom now. A hissing noise, and the sound of laboured breathing. Sherlock froze in mid-stride, staring at the speaker's grille in the ceiling.

"Stop it!" John said. "Sherlock, just ignore it. It isn't important now."

"Ah, ah," Jim said. "Be quiet, doctor, there's a good pet. Sherlock, pay attention. You don't want to miss this."

There was the sound of a cough, and then Sherlock's voice, fraught with fear. "_John?"_

John's voice in return, sounding strained. _"I'm fine."_

Jim giggled. "Oh, listen to him, isn't he brave? Don't you just want to cuddle him? Of course, you can't, because there's an inch-thick glass wall between you, but you can _see_ him. As often as you like, in fact. I have the whole thing on tape."

Another cough. The sound of breathing was becoming harsher.

Sherlock's throat was dry. He couldn't move.

"Sherlock, it's _over_," John's voice came as if from far away. "Look at me, look, I'm fine, I'm right here and I'm _fine_."

Sherlock was beginning to tremble. He heard his own voice over the speaker, sounding lost. "_John . . . I can't . . ."_

He couldn't. He couldn't think, couldn't breathe, couldn't stop the barrier from breaking and the memories from pouring through, choking his throat. John was sagging, sliding down the glass wall of his prison. John was dying and Sherlock had to turn away, had to forget so that he could play Jim's stupid, sick, goddamned _game._

"Oh, listen, this is my favourite bit," Jim said. "He's on his last breath, right? Do you remember? Can you see him, struggling to get the words out? Good, now listen."

"_Sherlock_ . . ." John's voice came weakly over the speaker. "_It's . . . all right . . ._"

"_Stop it!_" John shouted. "Stop it, for God's sake."

Hands grabbed Sherlock's shoulders, pulling at him. There was something warm pressed against his back, arms hugging around him, and it was then that he realized that he was crouched down on the floor, his hands clamped over his ears.

Sherlock waited. John was speaking, saying the sort of dull, predictable things that people usually did in these circumstances, but he was real and alive and Sherlock could feel the vibration of his voice against his back, and the newly regained memory of John's near death was vivid enough to make his touch less objectionable than most.

The intercom, Sherlock discovered when he finally, cautiously eased one hand away from his ear, had gone silent. The scene had finished or, more likely, Jim had stopped the tape after his objective had been met.

"Okay?" John asked after awhile, when the shaking had stopped.

"Yes." Sherlock cleared his throat. "Ahem. You can let go now."

"Oh. Right." John backed off.

Sherlock got to his feet and adjusted his shirt. For some reason he was finding it difficult to look at John.

"I'm glad no one saw that." Patently false: there was a camera in the room and Jim was most definitely recording them . . . but he had to say _something._ He wondered if John could be taught to delete things from his memory. Specifically, the last four and a half minutes would be a very good thing for him to forget.

"Hmm?" John was watching him, his brow still furrowed with concern. Their eyes met briefly, and then Sherlock glanced away.

"You, hugging me in an empty storeroom . . . people might talk."

John laughed, a breathy sound that was more relief than any real humour. "People do little else." He paused, still studying Sherlock. "Are you all right?"

"Immaterial," Sherlock said. "The more relevant question is if _you _have come out of this unharmed. After all, I was never in any real danger."

"Yeah, well," John shrugged. "Sore throat and a bit of a headache, but that's par for the course with a kidnapping. I should be used to it by now."

His intent was clearly to amuse, but there was a note of resignation in his voice. Sherlock picked up on it instantly, desperate as he was for a distraction, a problem to focus his mind and drown out the hot, sick churning of his stomach. Why resignation?

John had been kidnapped, he'd nearly died, and the danger wasn't over yet, so what _possible_ reason could he have for looking as if this had all happened before?

Oh.

Well, there had been the Black Lotus. And Moriarty, the first time around, but that had been ages ago. And after that there had been the bit with the counterfeiters' ring, and that time with the Russian mafia, and the time after that with the Saudi prince . . .

Was this what living with Sherlock had done to him? Was John actually _expecting_ to be abducted and to have his life threatened on a regular basis?

This was _not good._ This was so _very not good_ that Sherlock was astonished that John hadn't told him so before now. Oh, he'd complained on occasion, and even yelled, and there was one time in hospital that he'd wheeled himself into Sherlock's room and threatened to break his _other _arm if Sherlock didn't promise to arrange back-up with either Lestrade or Mycroft before running after the bad guys in the future . . . but all of that had been just John, being John, and by the time the next case came around he was there again at Sherlock's side, running just a step behind.

John was supposed to tell him when things were not good. Sherlock needed John to tell him when he . . . Sherlock needed John.

John was still watching him. "It's just . . ."

"What?"

"You're . . ." John trailed off, evidently embarrassed, and gestured toward his face.

Sherlock touched his cheek. His fingers came away wet. He stared at them.

"Oh."

"I've just never seen you cry before," John said. "Apart from on a case, that is."

"Yes, well." Sherlock swiped his hands across his face. He was _definitely_ going to teach John the art of selective memory deletion. But first he was going to find each and every one of Moriarty's recordings of this day's events, and burn them.

John looked around the room, clearly casting about for something else to say. "Your clothes are wet."

"As ever, John, you are a master of the obvious," Sherlock looked up at the camera mounted to the ceiling. "I believe you've got what you wanted. We've finished here."

"Almost," Jim said. "There's just one more thing before you go."

The green door at the far end of the room clicked open. Sherlock strode over to it and stopped so suddenly that John, following, bumped into him.

"Sherlock, what –"

"No," Sherlock said.

"Oh, yes," Jim answered.

The green door opened into a walk-in cupboard. There was no way out. The cupboard was empty save for a small table, on which rested a bottle of water and John's service pistol.

"You see, I told you," Jim said. "I always keep my promises. You were a good boy, so here's your water. You must be thirsty, what with one thing and another. You can have your drink, and there's enough for your pet, too. And then, when you're feeling better," he drew a long, satisfied breath. "Then you're going to kill John Watson."


	6. Chapter 6

"You're joking!" John couldn't help it. He supposed that he was meant to be terrified, but the complete absurdity of the situation suddenly struck him, and he began to laugh.

"I mean, come on," he said, looking up at the camera in the corner of the ceiling. "You've been watching us, right? What exactly has Sherlock done to make you think that's ever going to happen?"

"Well, now, that's a good question," Jim giggled. "Do you want to tell him, Sherlock, or shall I?"

Sherlock didn't answer. He was standing rigid, staring at the gun on the table.

John felt a trickle of unease. "Sherlock?"

"Go on," Jim said. "Tell him. He's dying to know!"

"John, he –" Sherlock broke off, and swallowed. John saw the movement of his throat, the brief closing of his eyes before he continued. "He has another hostage."

"That's right!" Jim crowed. "And full points to the gentleman in front. Shall I tell him what he's won, Johnny?"

"Fuck off," John said, but his mouth was dry. "You're lying."

"Ah, ah, language, doctor!" Jim giggled. "As it happens, I could be lying. Or not. But I've been planning this for a very long time, and I never lie about my successes. What would be the fun in that? So here it goes. Are you ready?"

"Do tell," Sherlock said. His voice was flat, almost bored, but he still hadn't moved or taken his eyes from the gun. "Enlighten us."

"Oh, you're going to love this!" Jim said. "First, do you know what time it is?"

"Uh," John looked at his watch. "It's, um, 5:30."

"Rush hour," Sherlock said in that same flat, dead tone. "The Underground, then?"

"Got it in one!" Jim applauded. "Want to tell him the rest?"

"A bomb," Sherlock said. "Remote controlled, likely triggered by a mobile phone signal, with an agent primed to detonate on your order."

"Right again!" Jim said. "You are _scintillating_ today, my dear. Mind, it's only a few small bombs in Victoria, Waterloo and so on. It's the mustard gas canisters that they're attached to that'll cause most of the fatalities. But you haven't got to the best bit yet. Don't you want to know the best bit?"

"My God," John whispered. His leg was starting to ache, and he had to forcibly stop himself from dwelling on the panic, the burned and screaming civilians with their clothes melted into their charred flesh, the elderly trampled underfoot, the children . . . "You sick bastard."

"Be quiet, Johnny, the grownups are talking," Jim said. "All right, Sherlock, I'll tell you. There was a clue. Nothing much, certainly nothing the police would take any account of, bless them. But it was a trace, a whisper that pointed to where a mysteriously disappeared consulting detective might have disappeared. And that place," he giggled again. "Was a disused maintenance shaft right under Victoria Station. Sadly, there was no one clever enough left to pick up that clue. I mean, only a man as observant and as brilliant as Sherlock Holmes could do it, right?"

John felt a chill as he began to form an idea of where this was heading. Sherlock, as usual, got there first. "Mycroft."

"Spot on!" Jim laughed. "Turns out that Holmes senior can put on quite a turn of speed, when properly motivated. And when he entered the station, my sources tell me, his face was something to see. Like the stuff of nightmares. Or, no, wait, that's me! Well, something equally poetic, I'm sure. The _point _is: he arrived there twenty minutes ago. And in ten minutes he's going to die along with maybe twelve thousand other people, unless you do what you're told and kill John Watson now."

Sherlock had gone white. John, watching him, shifted position, the better to catch him if he fainted. But Sherlock didn't faint. Apart from a slight trembling of his hands, he didn't even move.

"You realise, of course, that it is a zero-sum equation," he said. "Whichever choice I make, the result is the same."

"I _know_; that's the beauty of it!" Jim clapped his hands.

"Hang on," John said. "What?"

"Oh, but your pet is confused. Better explain it to him – you're ever so good at that."

"No, wait, _what?_" John grabbed his arm. "Sherlock, you did not just equate me with twelve thousand other people's lives. You did not."

Sherlock looked at him as if only just remembering that he was there. But before John could start to worry about going down that particular rabbit hole in his friend's brain again, Sherlock spoke.

"My heart."

John stared at him. "Okaay . . . really not making sense now."

"Oh, good Lord, he is _thick_, isn't he?" Jim said. "What on earth do you see in him? Really, doctor, it's quite simple. First I make our dear Sherlock realise that he has one. Then I make him _remember_ the silly thing when he tries to forget. And then, that is now, I burn it out of him. Honestly, as dastardly schemes go, it isn't that complicated."

"Thanks, you can shut up," John said. "What I don't get – Sherlock? Are you listening to me?" Sherlock's pale eyes had the abstract, dreamy look that meant he was a million miles away, lost in some vision that only he could see.

John grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him. "_Listen._ He's put thousands of people in harm's way. I'm a soldier. I swore an oath to defend those lives – Sherlock? Pay attention, damn it, this is important. Snap out of it, or so help me I'll tell Mrs. Hudson what you did with her stash of herbal soothers."

Sherlock's eyes cleared. "You wouldn't dare."

"Try me," John said. "Now, what did I just say? Repeat it back so I don't have to."

Sherlock's lips thinned in annoyance, but he said, rapidly and succinctly: "Lives at stake: thousands. Oath to defend said lives, taken. Importance, noted. Herbal soothers threat: implausible. You'd be implicated as an accomplice."

"That'll do," John said. "Now . . ." He pinched the bridge of his nose, shaking his head. "Dear God, I can't believe I'm saying this. This doesn't happen. Real people do not do this. They don't get forced into impossible life-and-death choices by their insane arch-nemesises, nemeses, whatever. It doesn't happen. But my point is, on the one hand there are _thousands _of innocent lives at stake. You care about them. I know you do. And there's your brother. Your _brother_, Sherlock. I know you don't get on, but c'mon. I might not want to spend a lot of time chatting with Harry, but she's my sister and I'd do anything for her. To save her. I would. It's what siblings do. And on the other hand . . ."

He trailed off. Sherlock was staring at him. He looked stricken, even worse than when Moriarty had played the tape of John's final moments in the gas chamber, but he hadn't collapsed. Not yet. John swallowed.

"On the other hand, there's me," he finished. "Just me. We've barely known each other two years, Sherlock. I'm just . . . nothing. I'm your flatmate. That's all. You can't seriously believe that I'm worth as much as all those lives. You can't equate my life with that of your own brother. And, I was trained for this, and I can't believe I'm letting a _civilian_ make this choice, fuck it."

He lunged past Sherlock to grab the gun. For an instant his fingers actually brushed the metal of the Sig's barrel, and then there was a sharp blow and numbness in his arm, and John was on the floor, clutching his shoulder, and Sherlock was standing over him, holding the gun.

"Martial arts, John, I did warn you." Damn, the bastard didn't even have the decency to be breathing hard.

For a long moment John could only lie there, stunned. When he finally got his breath back he could only think of one thing to say. "All right. Do it."

Sherlock looked down at the gun in his hand. He turned it over, popped the clip – John saw it, one cartridge loaded – and snapped it back into place.

John gritted his teeth. "Sherlock, I think my shoulder is dislocated. In a few minutes it's going to start to really hurt, so if it's all right with you, I'd appreciate it if you'd just shoot me now and get it over with."

Sherlock looked at him – really _looked _at him, grey eyes stripping away his secrets, paring him down to the bone in a single glance. John shivered. He couldn't help it – it was unnerving, being the focus of that intense a gaze. It was just as well that Sherlock usually only looked at dead bodies that way.

Then Sherlock turned away, apparently losing interest. "You don't have a death wish. I'd know about it."

"No, I spend my life chasing killers through the streets of London because it's so good for my heart rate." John squeezed his eyes shut. His shoulder was starting to throb, and he couldn't feel his fingers. "Sherlock, _please._ There are only five minutes left."

"Wrong, Johnny, there's just four minutes left," Jim broke in. "Tick tock, boys."

"Sherlock –" John's voice cracked. He swallowed and tried again. "I'm sorry. I wanted to make this easier for you. Just – it isn't your fault. Whatever happens. Moriarty did this. He's responsible –"

"You think I don't know that?" Sherlock's gaze snapped to him, and then away.

"Okay," John said. "So, we're agreed on that. Now, just . . ." he stopped for a moment to breathe. "God, this is not happening. This cannot be happening. But, Sherlock, I meant it. I'm trained for this. When I went into the Corps –"

"John, would you please just _shut up?_"

"No!" John snapped. "If people die today it is not going to be because of me. Now give me the gun!"

"No!" Sherlock whirled to face him, and now, finally, he was breathing hard. "You're not nothing," he said.

"What?"

"You. You're not nothing, and you're not just my flatmate. You're my . . . John," Sherlock finished, and looked away.

There was a silence. John wanted to ask what that meant, but couldn't seem to find the words. A part of his mind was still occupied with the sheer impossibility of this entire situation, but, he had to concede, impossible situations cropped up rather frequently around Sherlock. Around once a week, he'd estimate. He was feeling a bit punch-drunk. And his shoulder was really hurting quite a lot now.

"So I guess what Sherlock's trying to say, Johnny," Jim said, "is that inspiring though that little bout of self-sacrifice was, he isn't going to shoot you. Or let you shoot yourself. So you may as well make yourself comfortable and enjoy the screaming. It'll be on the news in a bit – I'm sure I can show the broadcast in here for you."

"Sherlock," John said. "Can you not let me make this decision for myself?"

Sherlock didn't answer. He had stopped pacing, and was staring at the ceiling camera. "That isn't going to happen."

"Oh, I think you'll find it will," Jim said. "In three minutes."

"No," Sherlock said. He cocked the gun. The sound was loud in the little room. "Ten seconds."

"What?" John said.

"What?" Jim said.

Sherlock raised the gun to his head, pressing the mouth of the barrel up just under his jaw. "Nine," he said.

"What the hell are you doing?" John yelled. He started to get up, gritting his teeth against the pain in his shoulder. Without taking his eyes from the camera, Sherlock kicked the back of his knee. John fell, hard, and cried out as his shoulder flared white-hot and stars broke across his vision. For a moment he thought he was going to pass out.

"Eight," Sherlock said.

"You can't do that," Jim said. "That isn't part of the deal."

Sherlock didn't waver. His hand gripping the gun was perfectly steady, his deep voice implacable. "Seven."

"I won't stop it," Jim said. "The bombs will go off anyway."

"Six."

"I'll still have John Watson," there was a frantic note to Jim's voice. "I'll kill him, Sherlock. I'll torture him to death."

"Five."

"I'll hang him by the arm you dislocated. I'll flay him alive, and drop acid in his eyes –"

"Four."

"Stop that! I mean it, I will, if you rob me of this, I'll take it out on him. He'll die cursing your name."

"Three."

"No! I forbid it! You can't!" Panic now, and fear – the first real emotion John had ever heard Moriarty express. John was fully as scared as Jim sounded, and apparently just as helpless to stop Sherlock. He couldn't think about what would happen to him if Sherlock died. He didn't much care.

"Two." For the first time Sherlock glanced away from the camera, and looked at John. There was something like an apology in his eyes. John couldn't move. It felt as if all his muscles had turned to water, and he couldn't quite get his breath.

Sherlock's finger tightened on the trigger. "One –"

"_No! Stop it, stop it!_" The door behind them banged open, and James Moriarty burst into the room.

John started in surprise, and then fell back with a groan, clutching his shoulder. Sherlock didn't even blink. He took two steps back, keeping the gun where it was.

"Call them off."

Jim looked at Sherlock. "You won't really do it." He was making a passable attempt at confidence, but the fear was plain to see in his face. 

"Now," Sherlock said.

Jim swallowed. Without taking his eyes from Sherlock he drew a mobile phone from his suit pocket, and flipped it open. "It's over. Get them out of there."

John heard a faint mutter in reply. Jim closed the phone, cutting it off mid-word.

"Put the gun down," he said. "We'll play a different game."

"I don't think so," Sherlock said. "I told you before; I've had enough of your games."

"Oh, come on," Jim wheedled. "Where would you be without me? Admit it, Sherlock. I'm the only real challenge you've ever had. And you just _love_ it."

"Certainly." Finally Sherlock lowered the gun . . . and raised it to point at Moriarty. "If you admit the feeling is mutual."

"Of course!" Jim grinned, looking up the gun's barrel to meet Sherlock's eyes. "I told you, we were _made _for each other."

There was a pause before Sherlock spoke, and when he did his voice was thoughtful, almost wistful. "Quite possibly."

John gave him a sharp look.

Jim heard it too. His smile broadened. "Call it a draw. I'll let your pet go. I'll leave London, and I'll make you such a game . . . it'll take you months, Sherlock. _Months_ for you to chase down the faintest of clues, the merest whispers of me to lead you across the continents. Ohhh . . ." he shivered, looking almost rapturous. "And in the end, Sherlock, it'll be just us, I promise. Just you and me. The way we're _meant_ to be."

The hairs stood straight up on the back of John's neck. The way Jim was talking, it sounded awfully close to a suicide pact. And the worst part of it was, Sherlock was tempted. It was in his eyes, in the almost indiscernible catch of his breath.

The truth was, Sherlock was too clever for his own good. John had never met anyone who could come even close to keeping up with him, except for Mycroft, and even then Mycroft's was a steadier, more thoughtful intelligence. He watched and waited and made his plans like a spider spinning a web: subtle and slow.

Sherlock burned like a fire, like a sun: so bright that it was impossible to look at, impossible to look away. He was constantly sifting and analysing and winnowing away the endless observations, facts, details that his ever-active brain collected – and he never seemed able to _stop._

He spent his life enslaved to the demanding fire of his intellect, feeding it cases, riddles, music, drugs . . . and as he listened to the quickening of Sherlock's breath, John wondered if maybe he welcomed Jim's offer. Maybe the prospect of ending his life locked in battle with his only true enemy worthy of the name held some appeal . . . if only because it would be an _end._

"Sherlock," John whispered, not sure what he was going to say, not sure that saying anything would make a difference. But he wanted Sherlock to stop looking at Jim that way, and he wanted him to stop _now._

Sherlock glanced at him, and then looked back at Moriarty. He licked his lips. "I don't think so, Jim. You see, you've rather given yourself away."

Jim's face tightened. Then he lunged forward, grabbing for the gun. Sherlock stepped back, and at that moment there was a heavy metallic clang from somewhere outside, and the lights went out.

There was the sound of scuffling in the dark, and John heard Moriarty swear, and then a report, painfully loud, as the gun went off.

"Sherlock!" John shouted, straining to see. There was the sound of breathing, harsh and very close.

"Sherlock," John reached out with his good hand, groping through the dark. His fingers brushed cloth, and he felt something solid and heavy and no longer breathing. "Sherlock, oh my God, no –"

A large hand closed over John's, making him jump. "Quiet," Sherlock murmured, close to his ear. "Stay where you are. Someone's coming."

The hand squeezed his, and then John heard Sherlock's clothes rustle as he moved away. He was taking a position next to the door, John guessed, though how Sherlock could move so surely was beyond him. Between the darkness and the struggle John had lost all sense of direction.

There was the sound of voices outside, coming toward them, and the tramp of many feet.

John held his breath, straining his ears. The noise came nearer, and then stopped just outside the door. For a brief eternity nothing happened, and John was conscious of his pounding heart and the sour taste of adrenalin in his mouth. Briefly he wondered if the camera had an infrared sensor, which would mean that Moriarty's henchmen could see them, which would mean that he and Sherlock had lost the element of surprise, which was the only thing they had going for them and he really didn't want to know what would happen to them when they lost this fight.

Then there was a shout as the door slammed open, banging against the wall, and John didn't have time to think anymore. The beams of a dozen torches stabbed the dark as the intruders crowded through the door. At the same moment Sherlock stepped into the blaze of torchlight, gun fixed on the man at their head.

One of the torches was shining right in John's eyes, blinding him. He blinked furiously, eyes watering as he tried to get his feet under him. But no one took the opportunity to strike him. In fact no one moved or, for a long moment, even seemed to breathe.

Then D.I. Lestrade's voice said, very clearly, "Sherlock, put the gun down."

"I'm considering it," Sherlock said.

"And?" Lestrade sounded a bit strained. Then he added, "Anderson, get your torch out of Watson's eyes. For God's sake!"

The light lowered, and John could see. Sherlock was standing, tall and thin and stained with Moriarty's blood, between him and what looked like most of Scotland Yard. Lestrade stood to Sherlock's left. At the head of the police team, with his brother's gun levelled between his eyes, was Mycroft Holmes.

"And I've decided: no." Sherlock said. His hand was slick with blood and clenched white-knuckled on the Sig's grip, but he held it absolutely steady.

Mycroft met his gaze calmly over the gun barrel. "Sherlock, this isn't helping."

"You were supposed to keep John safe," Sherlock said.

"I know."

"He nearly died." Sherlock cocked the gun.

"Sherlock, I'm fine," John said. Both brothers ignored him.

"He's hurt," Sherlock said.

"I know," Mycroft said again. "Don't you think it would be best to stand aside and let us help him?"

Sherlock tilted his head to one side in a thoughtful gesture. "Yes," he said. Then he pulled the trigger.

Sally Donovan screamed, clamping her hands over her mouth. The gun clicked loudly as the hammer closed on the empty chamber. Sherlock tossed it aside with a grimace of disgust.

"Really, Sherlock," Mycroft said as Lestrade's team surged past them into the room. "I thought we'd finished with this sort of thing when you were twelve. How many times must I tell you, a gun is not a toy?"

"Oh, you knew perfectly well it wasn't loaded." Sherlock turned his back on his brother. John wanted to tell him what an idiot he was being, but between the events of the past few hours and look in Sherlock's eyes and the fact of Moriarty's body lying a few feet away, the words wouldn't come.

So he tried to give Sherlock a reassuring smile instead. This failed, however, as the adrenalin faded from his system and the shock of his wounded shoulder set in and he was now shaking uncontrollably.

Lestrade was talking into his radio, saying something about a medic, and John thought that was odd because _he _was the medic, and if someone was hurt then he ought to get up and do something about it. He wanted to tell Lestrade this, but his teeth were chattering too hard to speak.

He was peripherally aware of Sherlock taking his hands, trying to hold them still. Dimly he heard him say something, the words indistinguishable but Sherlock's voice somehow comforting nonetheless. Listening to him, John thought that really everything was going to be all right, because Sherlock was with him and only a fool would try to get past Sherlock to hurt John, and only a madman would try to get past John to hurt Sherlock, and Moriarty was dead, so that took care of that. And with this somewhat hazy but nonetheless comforting thought, John slid out of consciousness all together.


	7. Chapter 7

"It was the electrical grid, of course."

"Of course. Upon realizing that the Underground lead was a ruse, I turned my attention elsewhere. Within an hour of your disappearance London's power grid had suddenly diverted 50,000 volts to an abandoned factory in the Park Royal Industrial Estate. It wasn't a difficult leap."

The voices were nearby. John heard them as he drifted out of sleep into a warm, dopey sort of awareness. He didn't feel any pain at all, and didn't quite remember why he thought that he _should _feel pain, which meant that he was most likely drugged to the gills. On the whole this seemed like a good thing.

"H'm. The power cut was effective, but it's a pity that it deprived you of the chance of trying the grid for yourself. I would have enjoyed seeing that."

"No doubt. What was the code, by the way?"

"You had to go through that room on your way in. You didn't solve it?"

"It was dark, and I was in a hurry. I rather had other things on my mind."

Sherlock's deep rumble was at John's right, while on his other side someone was speaking with a lighter, more urbane tone. Same posh accent, though . . . he groped for a moment before the name came to him. Mycroft. Sherlock and his brother were evidently facing each other, with John between them.

John considered escaping back into sleep, or possibly trying for an outright coma. It seemed the safest of his options.

"John." Blast. He hadn't moved or blinked or even changed his breathing, so far as he was aware, but of course a little thing like that wasn't going to put off Sherlock Holmes.

"You're in hospital, John, and you are recovering admirably. The doctor tells me that you'll be fit for discharge tomorrow."

Or his brother either, apparently. John caved to the inevitable and opened his eyes.

The first thing he saw was Sherlock, who smiled so brilliantly at him that John couldn't help smiling in return. Sherlock smiled so rarely – his usual sardonic smirk didn't count – that John had come to value it when he did. Any real, open and honest emotion from Sherlock seemed like a rare treasure, something that only John ever got to see. And here he was grinning at John as if he were a new unbroken code and Christmas and a triple-murder crime scene all rolled into one, and John couldn't help but feel a bit special as a result.

"Hey," he murmured. His voice was weak, but no worse than if he'd had a bout of laryngitis. The greater difficulty was his tongue, which felt thick and strange in his mouth, as if he'd woken with a hangover. "A'right?"

If possible, Sherlock's grin widened. "Fine. You?"

"Yeah," John blinked, taking in his surroundings. He was on a hospital bed, in a small room with a window and a TV mounted on the wall, and very little else. It looked much the same as the room he'd woken up in after the swimming pool bombing.

"Quite so," Mycroft Holmes said. "I believe I shall make standing reservations at this hospital for you and my brother. It would save time."

There was a tinkle of water as he poured a glass from the pitcher next to John's bed, and held it out to him. John reached automatically to take it, and discovered that his left arm was bound to his chest in a sling.

"Ah, you are instructed to keep your arm immobile for the next two weeks," Mycroft said with a sympathetic smile, which John found suspect. "It was the same shoulder as your previous injury, after all."

Sherlock was immediately on the defensive, his smile vanishing as he faced his brother. "It was necessary."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. Sherlock scowled. "You heard my report. You know what happened."

"Your report, yes," Mycroft glanced down, examining his fingernails. "Your report was . . . lacking, in some details."

"I told Lestrade everything that was relevant. Nothing else matters."

"Mmm. I wonder if John would agree?"

John was suddenly aware of both Holmes brothers staring at him. He busied himself with drinking his water, the glass held awkwardly in his right hand, and didn't look up.

"Leave John out of this."

"It was John's shoulder that was dislocated. In a struggle, as I understand it, for a weapon which Moriarty provided. You neglected to say why he gave you, his prisoners, a loaded gun."

"He was not rational."

"Mmm. And you prevented John from taking it because . . .?"

Sherlock didn't answer. John, looking at him, could see the coming of a massive sulk, the sort of petulant reaction that was usually directed at Mycroft, but was just as likely to include him, Mrs. Hudson and most of New Scotland Yard as collateral damage. He decided to take preemptive action.

"Moriarty told us that he'd planted bombs on the Underground. He threatened to set them off unless Sherlock killed me."

"John!" Sherlock was aghast, staring at him in horror.

John looked back defiantly. "What? It isn't as if you actually did it. Even with all those lives at stake, you found a way out. It was brilliant. Mind, you took years off my life with that stunt, and I'll never forgive you, but you were genius, you daft idiot."

There was a pause. Mycroft looked from John to Sherlock, his eyes, so like his brother's, calculating. Sherlock turned away, closing his eyes like one utterly betrayed. John sighed.

"Well," Mycroft said at last. "It may interest you to know that the Underground has been shut down while we perform a bomb sweep. Four explosive devices have been found, along with some canisters of an as yet unidentified chemical."

"Mustard gas," John said.

"Ah," Mycroft took a small book from his breast pocket and made a note. "So. As it seems that you have prevented a major national disaster, you have your country's thanks."

Sherlock snorted. John glanced at him, and decided, what the hell, he might as well be hanged for a sheep as for a lamb. "He said that you were there. Moriarty. He intended you to be killed in the disaster, if –"

"John, _please_," Sherlock broke in. "It's over. It doesn't _matter._"

"Indeed," Mycroft said. "And as I was there only a few minutes before determining that my attention would be better directed elsewhere, one might presume Moriarty's surveillance to be lacking. Nonetheless, the thought is appreciated."

Sherlock lifted his head. For a long moment he and Mycroft locked gazes. John felt distinctly uncomfortable. He had an image of himself as an unarmed civilian who has wandered off a map and into the middle of a war zone.

Then Sherlock said, apropos of nothing: "Moriarty wasn't in Bolivia."

It was a declaration of intent, John could tell that much, though he'd no idea of what.

Mycroft's eyes narrowed. "How long?"

Sherlock smirked. "Two years. Plus Christmas dinners."

There was a pause. Then Mycroft said, turning a page in his diary: "We found several video recorders among Moriarty's equipment in the factory."

Sherlock froze. Mycroft said nothing more, but fixed his brother with an assessing gaze.

Finally Sherlock swallowed. "What do you want?"

"Ten cases," Mycroft said promptly. "To be of my choosing, when and where I determine. You will take them without complaint, sulking or injury to yourself or to your flat, and you will accept any reward which a grateful government chooses to bestow upon you afterward."

Sherlock glared at him. "Three cases. No knighthood, and don't even think about the House of Lords."

"Seven," Mycroft said. "No knighthood, barring exceptional circumstances. And I doubt the peerage could survive you, anyway."

"Five," Sherlock said. "And," he sighed, as one who makes the ultimate sacrifice, "I won't mention again that you were wrong."

"Done," Mycroft smiled and made another note in his little book. "I shall have the tapes delivered to Baker Street this afternoon. Good day, John. Sherlock."

With a nod to John he slipped the book back into his breast pocket and, collecting his umbrella from where it leaned next to the door, he left.

Sherlock remained where he was, standing rigid as the door closed behind his brother, before he finally released a long breath and sank down into the chair next to John's bed. John turned his head to look at him.

"You're really a piece of work, aren't you?"

"H'm?" Sherlock glanced at him.

"You. Mycroft. It's just . . ." John waved his water glass in a gesture meant to encompass Sherlock, his brother, and the entire screwed up history of the Holmes dynasty. "Most people wouldn't mind admitting that they cared if their brother lived or died. It wouldn't be something to be embarrassed about."

Sherlock snorted. "Most people's brothers are not Mycroft."

"Thank God," John agreed. He was aware that he was still riding a high from some severely powerful drugs, and that was making him speak more freely than he normally would. If he didn't stop talking soon he'd be in danger of broaching subjects that Sherlock had long ago made clear were off-limits. But those same drugs made it hard for him to care. And besides, he reasoned, he'd been through a lot in the past few . . . hours? Days? He wasn't sure. All he knew was that Sherlock owed him some answers.

"Did he even hug you?"

Sherlock stared at him. "Did who hug me?"

"Mycroft."

"No!" Sherlock looked alarmed at the thought. "Why would he?"

"Why . . ." John looked to the ceiling for help. "You nearly died, Sherlock! And, for all you knew, he could have died too. The main reason thousands of people _didn't _die is that you used your own life as a bluff against a homicidal maniac. And now you're both safe and it's all back to staring contests and silent threats and I don't even know . . . What is it with you, anyway? I swear, the two of you make the bloody Royal Family look healthy and well-adjusted."

There was a pause. Then Sherlock said quietly, "It wasn't a bluff."

"What?"

"My threat to Moriarty. It wasn't a bluff. I was prepared to go through with it."

John looked at him. "No, you weren't."

"Of course I was. It wouldn't have been an effective threat otherwise. But there's no need to look at me like that. Even you must have seen that his response was completely predictable."

"No, I . . . _what?_" John pushed himself to sit up straighter, bracing his back against the pillows. "What are you talking about?"

"Moriarty," Sherlock said. "He never intended me to die."

"Oh, well, that's obvious," John snorted. "He only kidnapped you, and stranded you in front of an oncoming train, and nearly electrocuted you –"

"Immaterial," Sherlock said impatiently. "That was just . . . fun." He saw John's frown and sighed. "Yes, all right, not good, but it _was._ And besides, I knew he couldn't kill me."

"Really," John said.

Sherlock looked at him. "John, haven't you ever wondered why I never went into crime?"

It was a moment before John could speak. "Have I . . . _no!_ Because you help people. You have a unique talent, and you use it to solve crimes that no one else could. You stop murderers, and you save lives. You serve justice."

"Oh." Sherlock blinked. Evidently this was a thought that had not previously occurred to him.

John sighed. "Okay. Why do _you _think you aren't a criminal?"

"Because it would be boring," Sherlock said. "You've met the official police force. There's no creativity there, not the least desire to stretch their limits. I could run rings around them with my eyes closed – I could certainly be a better master criminal than Moriarty ever was. They'd have no chance of stopping me. You see?"

"Oh, God," John muttered. "I'm beginning to."

"Exactly," Sherlock nodded. "It would be dull beyond all tolerance. Now consider Moriarty. Without me, where would he be?"

"H'm," John considered this as best he could, given the dissipating haze of painkillers and the surrealism of this conversation. "He sounded ready to end it all, though, before the lights went out. How did you know he wasn't planning to finish it with you right then?"

"There was only one bullet in the gun," Sherlock said. "Any rational observer would agree that my life is more valuable than yours – the service you provided was useful, no doubt, but no different than that of a hundred other army medics. Whereas I am unique. Logically, there was no reason for me to sacrifice myself for you. And, had I become irrational in my grief following your death, there would have been no more bullets for me to use. So he gave himself away, you see."

"Right," John took a moment to let this sink in. He had the feeling that he should be insulted, but the truth was, while he'd never have stated it so baldly himself, Sherlock was right. John was ordinary. Being around Sherlock, he'd never felt more dull and plain and _boring _in his life. In a purely rational, logical analysis, the world's only consulting detective beat a used up army surgeon hands down.

None of which explained why Sherlock had been so ready to take his own life to save John's.

"You're a crap sociopath, you know that?"

Sherlock looked affronted. "John –"

"Oh, don't start. You just said yourself that there was no rational reason for what you did. Why is it so bloody hard for you to just admit that you care about people?"

"Why are you so insistent that I do?"

"Oh, come off it!" John began to laugh. "I was there with you, after the chess game . . . Do I have to play you the tape?"

Sherlock jumped to his feet: a swift, restless movement. He paced to the window and stood looking out at the slanting evening sun, his back to John. It was a long time before he spoke, and when he did, his voice was strained, as if it were being wrenched out of him.

"I never did."

"What?"

"Before," Sherlock made a vague gesture, and then dug his hands into his hair in clear frustration. "Before you, I never cared. Not the way they said I should."

John didn't ask who 'they' were. He did have the thought that this answered one question, at least. He'd wondered before, if Sherlock had just been mouthing off to Anderson or if there had actually been doctors in his youth, a diagnosis – but he kept quiet and listened.

"I _can't _care. Look what it's done to you. You nearly died because I _cared._ I can't think when you're in danger, and if I had any sense at all I'd leave and break all contact with you, but I won't because every time I think about it I feel as if I'm dying inside, and I'm too selfish to die that way, by inches."

John opened his mouth to protest this statement, but Sherlock carried on, unheeding. "_He _knew. You were right; we were alike, more than I wanted to admit. But he never had a John to care about. He never had anyone to tell him when he was not good . . . and _he _would never conceive putting an ordinary person's life above his own, so he couldn't imagine that I would. Even though he knew enough to recognize my . . . heart . . . he didn't really understand it. You. Me. Us. How could he?"

Sherlock stopped. John waited, but it seemed that there was nothing more to come. Sherlock so rarely spoke of anything even remotely personal that this felt like the bursting of a dam, like a flood. John took a breath, trying to get his bearings, lest he be swept away.

"Okay. First, you don't get to decide what's best for me. There are two of us in this . . . whatever this is, and I do know what I'm doing, thank you. If you ever even try disappearing on me I'll get Mycroft to hunt you down, and then you really will die, and it won't be by inches. Got it?"

Sherlock turned his head, just enough for John to see the half-smile that played around his lips. "Yes."

"All right," John hesitated, and then made the plunge. "Second. When you say 'us' . . ."

"Our friendship," Sherlock finally turned to face him, and then rolled his eyes. "Oh, honestly. _Must _you be so pedestrian? It took seeing you strapped in enough Semtex to take down a building to make me realize I actually cared about you as more than a portable sounding board. I think that's quite enough to be getting on with, don't you?"

"Right. Sorry," John shook his head. "You know what? I take it back about you and Mycroft. This thing between you and Moriarty – _that _is the most fucked up relationship I've ever seen."

Sherlock's mouth quirked in a slanted grin, and John smiled back. "Well, at least you didn't have any problems killing him."

Sherlock's smile faded. John looked more closely at him. "What is it?"

"Nothing," Sherlock shook his head.

"What?"

"It's nothing," Sherlock said. "You should get some sleep. Your sister will be here soon, and your interactions with her will be improved if you are rested."

"No, Sherlock –" John dropped his empty glass to reach across the bed, managing to snag Sherlock's sleeve as he passed. "Tell me. You aren't actually going to miss that insane –"

"Of course not," Sherlock said.

"Good," John said. "Because I don't care how many interesting cases he gave you, he wasn't worth it. The people he killed, and –"

"I _know_," Sherlock interrupted. "Regretting his death would be not good, correct?"

John blinked. It was a moment before he could speak. "Not . . . yes, Sherlock. Regretting the death of the psychopathic murderer who imprisoned and tortured us would be very not good."

"Which is why I don't regret it," Sherlock said. "Even though life is going to be insufferably boring without him. I can't help that part, it's true," he added, seeing John's look. "You know it is. But even so, I don't regret it. It's just . . ."

"What?"

"In the struggle, I didn't have room to aim. The bullet passed through his skull and destroyed his frontal cortex," Sherlock said. "And I would so have liked to have kept his brain."

John stared at him. Then he started to laugh. He couldn't help it. The drugs had faded enough now that he could feel the pain in his shoulder as he slumped back on the bed, but he laughed anyway. After a moment, Sherlock began to laugh too.

_This doesn't happen in real life,_ John thought. People didn't get into giggling fits over the death of their flatmate's arch-nemesis, because real people didn't have arch-nemeses, except that Sherlock did and John's entire life was just so crazy and messed up and _Sherlock_ that he didn't even know what normal was any more.

So he laughed, and Sherlock laughed with him, and it was good.

It was all good.

l

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The End.

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**Coming in 2013:** _The Gloaming_, an original novel by Lamiel. In a world ruled by monsters, you have to be a monster to survive.


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